


Amnesty Records

by ThisWasInevitable



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Campaign: Amnesty (The Adventure Zone), Collars, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Praise Kink, Rockstar Indrid, Sex Toys, Strap-Ons, TAZ Amnesty, Trans Duck Newton, Vaginal Sex, background danbrey, background sternclay, indruck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisWasInevitable/pseuds/ThisWasInevitable
Summary: Duck Newton gets a once in a lifetime opportunity to work on the road crew for Indrid Cold, the golden boy of Amnesty Records. Working for Indrid Cold is a dream come true and Duck's determined not to fuck it up.When an accident brings him and the semi-reclusive performer closer together, Duck starts to wonder if there's another dream of his that might just come true too.It's time for hijinks, romance, and just a tiny bit of chaos, as Amnesty Records hits the road.
Relationships: Indrid Cold/Duck Newton
Comments: 28
Kudos: 103





	1. Hardworkin' Man

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the "Rockstar" prompt fill I did a month or so ago.

Duck adjusts his jacket in the dark-tinted windows, hoping there’s no one behind them to see him shifting and sweating in the sticky Georgia sunshine. He looks professional but not stuffy, he even ran a photo of his outfit by Juno via text to get her stamp of approval. Sure, he;s interviewed for roadie gigs before. But there’s a big difference between helping some barely-known band tour and interviewing for a job at fucking Amnesty Records. 

Amnesty is home to some of the best alt sounds of the last decade, and he had to try six times to get a real sentence out when a rep from it called and asked if he was interested in interviewing to join the road crew for an unspecified tour. Apparently an old fried, Minerva, had been working for them and decided to retire to run her own gym, and suggested Duck as her replacement. He aced the phone interview when they’d done it, which is why he’s now walking across a shiny tile floor to a black and red front desk.

“Can I help you?” The kid behind the desk has an eyebrow piercing and a surprisingly non-surly tone.

“I’m here for, uh, an interview with Madeline Cobb? Name’s Duck Newton.”

The kid picks up the phone, dials and has a quick consisting of “your one o' clock is here” and “yes ma’am.”

“Someone will be down to meet you shortly.”

The “someone” turns out to be a guy with grey hair who seems to be in his fifties, wearing Crocs and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. 

“Duck?”

“That’s me.” Duck stands in what he hopes is a calm manner

The man smiles, holds out his hand, “Arlo Thacker, nice to meet you. C’mon, we’re meetin just through here.”

They end up in a nondescript meeting room, walls plastered with posters from Amnesty's various stars. Sitting at the table is a woman who looks exactly as he imagined her, but still seems out of place in her no-nonsense western wear. Amnesty hasn’t really put out a western or country album since The Cryptids released _Unsolved_.

Madeline Cobb stands, hand out, “Nice to see you in person, Duck.”

“It’s real nice to be here, Mrs. Cobb. Can’t tell you how stoked I was to get that call.”

The older woman waves, “Call me Mama, pretty much the only name I go by these days.”

They sit down and start the interview, Mama and Thacker trading off asking him questions about his experiences on a road crew, his skills, how he’d handle various scenarios if they arose during a show. Duck feels more confident with each question. He knows his shit, and he’s handled more disasters and equipment snafus than he cares to remember. 

Then they hit one of the last topics. 

“Know it’s a fuckin’ cliche, but we gotta ask: what would you say is a weakness of yours?” Mama makes a tic on her clipboard. 

“Uhhh. Hmm, well, I can’t really lie. Friend of mine once said listenin to me try to bluff is like gettin teeth pulled.”

“How do you figure that as a weakness?”

“Well, uh” Duck rubs the back of his neck, “Since you said you can’t tell me who exactly I’d be workin for unless you actually hire me...look, all I’m sayin is that if this is a job where the talent’s the kind that needs constant ego strokin above everythin else, I may not be the fella for the job, no matter how bad I want it.”

Mama chuckles softly, “Nope, feel pretty confident sayin he ain’t that kind of performer.”

They finish up with Duck asking a few questions about the timeline and Thacker giving him a look at the full benefits and pay, laughing when Duck’s eyebrows shoot up his head.

“Yep, that’s the real amount. We want folks to stay, and that means payin ‘em a nice chunk of change,”

He says his goodbyes, talks shop with Thacker as the older man walks him back out to the lobby and bids him a cheerful farewell. 

And two days later, he gets a phone call telling him he got the job.

Which is how Monday finds him downing his coffee as he double-checks his instructions for finding the area he’s supposed to be in and getting his identification sorted out so he won’t get stopped every two seconds by security. 

Getting his badge and signing his paperwork in the HR office feels normal, the office bland enough that he could be anywhere in the world. It’s only when he’s standing at the elevator doors, waiting to be taken to the tenth floor, that the nerves kick in. He wipes his hands on his jeans, as if the worry was dirt he could just rub away.

Said nerves are not helped when he reaches the door he’s been instructed to go through and finds his keycard won’t work. 

“Fuck, shit, c’mon.” He whispers as the light once again blinks red. 

“Here, there’s a trick to it.” 

He whirls, finds an exceedingly well dressed man with slicked-back black hair smiling politely at him. Duck wonders how exactly he fits into a place like Amnesty, until he spots that his tie is covered with tiny silhouettes of Bigfoot.

“You have to hold it for a two- and -a-half-count, which isn’t an automatic instinct for most people. I’ve asked to have it fixed but, well, it’s not exactly urgent, so I can see why it hasn’t been done yet. After you.”

Duck dips his head in thanks, steps in as the man follows behind him. 

“You must be Duck. Mama shared the recording of your interview with me, so I was glad to hear you accepted our offer.” He holds out his hand, “Joseph Stern.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Stern.” His mouth gets the words out fine, but his brain is churning; he knows that name, that name belongs to the manager of the now-disbanded Cryptids and…

Duck gets his first look at the equipment nearby, including a items labeled with “I.C”

“Holy shit, I’m workin for Indrid Cold? Wait, fuck sorry for cursin.”

Stern laughs, “Duck, I cannot stress how little anyone here is going to care about that. Just don’t do it on mic in front of an audience and we should be fine. And yes, you’re now part of Indrid Cold’s technical team. You can see why we have to be cagey about who’s tour you’re signing up for.”

“No kiddin. You’d have a line of people out the door.”

“And down the block. And only five candidates with any actual qualifications. We've learned that the hard way. Hence the secrecy. Oh, excuse me. This is Stern?” He puts his phone to his ear, heading towards a man in a garish pinstriped suit. 

“What do you think, sport? Still on board?” Thacker grins as he waves him over to join the rest of the crew.

“Hell yeah.”

Thacker introduces him to the rest of the team, Mama striding over to join them after stopping to talk with Dani (Dani _Coulice_ , one half of the pair of siblings that make up Indrid Cold’s band, jesus christ how is this even real for him right now). The older guy with the thick New York accent is Leo, the nerdy guy in the UFO shirt is Kirby, who’s in charge of the effects. It’s not a big crew, and Duck now understands why they asked him about so many skills in the interview; being a Jack-of-all-trades is clearly a prerequisite for being on Indrid Cold’s team. 

When he mentions this, Leo nods, “Indrid isn’t always the, uh, most social guy. Not that he’s rude, just kinda reclusive at times. Joe’s learned that he does best with a small crew. Besides, even with Indrid fillin’ out big theaters on the regular, it ain’t like we’re, I dunno, Lady Gaga or some other show with huge sets and effects.” 

Duck snickers at Leo’s example, imagining the two of them in that kind of set-up, turns his head when the door _ka-thunks_ shut. And then his brain splits into three parts.

Sixteen year old Duck is having a full on fanboy freak-out. 

Twenty-two year old Duck is wondering how the fuck someone who looked lip-licking hot on screen looks even better in person.

And the current Duck, age twenty-seven, is trying to remind himself that he is a goddamn professional. He’s met pretty famous people before. So what if this one is half the reason he got into the music industry in the first place?

So what if this is Indrid Cold?

Indrid Cold who happens to be looking right at him.

Oh, fuck, Mama is trying to introduce them. 

“Indrid, this here is Duck.”

“Duck?” Mr. Cold cocks his head, and Duck sees himself reflected in his red glasses, a trademark he’s worn for a decade. 

“It’s a nickname.”

“Ah, of course. It’s very nice to meet you.” The singer doesn’t shake his hand, inclining his head in a small bow instead, hands full of a large sketch book and a box of pens, “I’m glad Minerva recommended a replacement, she was a very helpful member of the team. I once saw her lift an amp over her head with one hand.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her alright.”

Indrid must mistake him keeping a forced lid on his excitement for the singer having said something wrong, because he hastily adds, “But I’m sure you have your own talents, and I’m very excited to have you join us. Ah, excuse me, I have to meet with Ned and Joseph to discuss where in all this I have to stop to give interviews. Good luck on your first day, Duck.”

“Thanks.” Duck puts on his best, calm smile, but form the look Mama gives him he knows at least some of his awkward inner monologue shows through. He excuses himself to grab water, wishing he’d grabbed his reusable canteen so he doesn’t have to swipe a plastic bottle from the lunch table. 

“That’s pretty much how everyone reacts the first time.” 

Duck chokes on his water as Aubrey Little, the magician whose act opens all of Mr. Cold’s shows, leans against the table, grinning at him. 

“You actually did really well. I freaked the fuck out the first time I met him. You looked only, like, a little starstruck.”

“I, uh, I mean I try to keep an even keel. Uh, especially around someone I’m workin for.”

“You get over it pretty quick. Indrid doesn't try to keep up a persona anywhere but on stage, which makes it easier to see him as just some dude after awhile.”

“Good to know.” Duck really, _really_ hopes she’s right. 

“Whelp, I gotta go finish fitting Dr. Harris Bonkers costume. Silly rabbit, keeps eating his bowtie. See you around, Duck! And remember, it gets easier.” She shoots finger guns his way, complete with little sparks coming from her fingertips. 

Duck appreciates her reassurance. He just hopes they get on the road in the next few days. He knows himself well enough to know that once he’s off and moving, finding the rhythm of the work, any worries he has about a tour or it’s performers tend to fall by the wayside. 

The universe helps him out. Five days later, he’s locking up the apartment, spare key already left with the landlord so he can let the subletters in later. Duck will be gone almost a year, Indrid Cold being an artist who practically lives on the road. 

In spite of that, Duck’s remarkably calm. After all, he has no pets to say goodbye to, no family or friends to send him on his way, teary-eyed but excited for him. It’s nice, being able to go about his life with minimal fuss. All he has to do is ignore the twinge in his chest when he thinks about it for too long. The same twinge he got when he realized that other than Juno, Jane, and his mom, he had no one else to call and tell the good news when he got hired. 

When he gets to the massive parking garage behind Amnesty, three vehicles are waiting for him. One, black with red flames, has “The Lady Flame” plastered on the side. The second is all black, nothing to indicate it belongs to Indrid Cold save for the man himself, perched on the steps and talking with Boyd, his driver. Duck makes tracks to the smaller, white van that will carry the crew, tosses his two bags inside, and goes to help load the equipment into the cargo holds of the two larger buses. He shuts the hold just as everyone is finishing up their final preparations. 

Mr.Cold notices him, offers a smile and small, almost awkward wave and says, “See you in Atlanta.” 

Duck waves back, then clambers into the van, plunking himself into the seat next to Leo. Mama waits for Indrid’s bus to lurch forward before turning the key. She flicks a glance back to her crew in the rear-view mirror, and grins. 

“Alright y’all, let’s get this show on the road.”


	2. The Strangeness in Me

Duck has a goddamn spiritual experience that first night in Atlanta.

Not only is he seeing Indrid Cold live, he’s up close and personal, he’s setting up sound and making sure water is where it needs to be, he’s double-checking everything on the tour rider to make sure the band will be safe. 

Indrid Cold is singing only a few yards away from him, and Duck helped make it happen. Duck is part of the reason thousands of people can hear that singular voice washing out over them.

The venue is immense, so the band doesn’t hang around for autographs or pictures. Instead they play two encores, ending with a rendition of “Stake Me” that makes him tingle down to his marrow. 

The band finally comes off the stage for good and he can see Mr. Colds metallic black shirt is soaked through, and his voice sounds a little rougher than it did this morning. Duck is ready, the asked-for thermos of tea in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. The fact the singer is taller than him is a blessing, since he doesn’t have to look him in the eye and see him flushed with sweat running down his throat, just tempting Duck to beg for the chance to clean it with his tongue. He has to sleep in a van tonight with four other people; he can’t afford to be nursing a hard-on. 

“Little bird told me you might need these.” He drawls, kicking himself for how corny that sounds. 

A light laugh and then, “Wonderful, just what I needed. Thank you Duck.” The words are somehow genuine and distracted at the same time, as if the singer isn’t fully in the room with the rest of them. 

(Duck soon learns that Mr. Cold is often like that, especially after shows when he’s exhausted but, according to Aubrey, “can’t make his brain shut up for even, like, two seconds. I swear I caught him writing lyrics on a napkin three minutes after a show one time”).

They pack up, and by the time they’re ready to go the sun is threatening to rise. Duck’s resigned to being sticky until god knows when until Aubrey tosses him a towel.

“Your turn.”

“Huh?” 

She points towards her bus, “Unless we’re in a major hurry, road crew gets to shower in there.”

“Oh thank fuck.”

Aubrey laughs, “yeah, that’s the general consensus. I mean, I woulda offered no matter what because I’ve been there, I once went a full week using only wet wipes and it suuuuuucked.”

“Jesus.”

“Yep. Never try to do your first tour as a broke magician on a Greyhound. Anyway, it’s technically Stern’s idea. He says he’s done his time ‘traveling with a bunch of unwashed weirdos.’ Which he means lovingly, but also he’s kind of a neat freak so I think it weirds him out if only the performers and him get to be clean while everyone else doesn’t.”

Duck laughs, thanks her again, and hurries off; he’s got a hot date with some hot water and he’s not about to miss out. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Indrid sips the pineapple juice, then settles on downing it before starting on the vanilla honey latte sitting in front of him, vibrating slightly from the rumble of the engine. 

“Well, my dear boy, how are you feeling now that we are once again out on the road?” Ned finishes buffing his nails from across the tiny table. Stern is beside him, having hopped aboard when they stopped for gas so the three of them could have a meeting. From the way he’s scrolling through his phone, Indrid suspects there is some bad news in the mix. 

“Wonderful. You know I enjoy touring.”

“Ever the consummate professional.” Ned lifts his coffee cup in a toast. 

Indrid supposes he has a point. But it’s not the full reason why he’s glad the “Paranormal” tour is finally underway. He loves writing new material, loves working with Dani and Jake in the studio, still glows with pride at the album they put out last fall. But if he goes too long without touring his skin itches, and no amount of work-shopping new songs or doing interviews will soothe it. He has to get back on stage, throw himself into being Indrid Cold, being the Mothman (even though he hasn’t formally used that title since The Cryptids disbanded) roll about in the feeling of knowing exactly who he is and what’s expected of him until it coats his skin and leaves him calm.

Because without the stage, and without the tour, Indrid is a man who will sit down to write in his empty house and come up two days later in a mountain of lyrics and food wrappers. A man who forgets to text his friends, to invite them over or see them even though he wants to. A man who wakes up hugging his pillows so often he gave up and bought one of those giant ones that’s supposed to feel like someone cuddling you. 

Boyfriend pillows, yes, that’s what they’re called. He’d found the name rather charming, even though he knew he ought to be humiliated ordering it. Then again, “Indrid Cold sleeps with boyfriend pillow” is not nearly as obnoxious a headline as-

“Indrid Cold Lipsynching Rumors Continue. Has the singer lost his edge?” Stern glares at this phone before turning it to Indrid, who barely makes out the words because he doesn’t have his glasses on and Stern is more than four feet away from him now.

He sighs, “I thought the new tour would settle that. Goodness, I was even a bit off-key during “Roadhead Rodeo” last night. Why would I have someone record in my place just to sound wrong?”

Ned’s “you sounded perfect” overlaps with Stern’s “I suspect people didn’t notice that.”

Stern shoots Ned “the look” before continuing, “Most articles are reviewing the show positively or just praising the heavens that you’re back on tour. But there are no fewer than three, and on major entertainment platforms, that follow this line. And no, in spite of what Ned is about to say, not all publicity is good publicity. Not when a large part of your brand is about being real and messy.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Indrid deflates a bit, “what on earth am I meant to do? I can’t go out of my way to prove I’m not using a voice double; that will just look like we’ve staged something to quash the rumors.”

“Not to worry gentleman, I am working on a solution as we speak.”

“Does it involve anything that could be a P.R headache? One which, I would remind you, would be your job to clean up?” Stern crosses his arms.

“Only one of them.”

“Lord help me.” Stern raises his eyes to the ceiling as Indrid laughs. There’s a _ding_ and the manager looks down at his phone. Then his lips quirk up and he blushes. 

“And how is Barclay this morning?” Indrid smirks, already aware of the answer, since his friend and former bandmate already texted him today. 

“Fine. As is Nessie. See?” He turns his phone so Indrid can see a greyhound wearing a very large “Paranormal Tour 2020” shirt with Barclay, clearly in his pajamas, proudly leaning to the frame.

“Such a good girl.” Indrid coos at the screen. 

“Oi, Chicane, gonna need those parking instructions right quick!” Boyd calls from the front seat. 

“Coming, fair compatriot.” Ned grumbles. 

He and Stern stand at the same time, Indrid getting one last glimpse of the photo as he does. The rumpled bed the greyhound is lounging on, the bookcase just in the corner, the fern fuzzy in the top left edge. A home, just waiting for someone to come back to it. 

And all that will be waiting for Indrid when this is over is a large, empty house. 

\---------------------------------------------------------

It’s two weeks into the tour, and while he’s got bruises from carrying equipment and has probably eaten more GORP then is healthy thanks to Thacker, Duck is having the time of his life. 

He lifts and tunes and tests, takes his turns driving the van, offers feedback on new tricks when Aubrey asks for it and acts appropriately aghast/enthusiastic when Kirby continues on his quest to eat every horrifying fast food they encounter (“he calls it the ‘munch squad’ even though the rest of us got the good sense not to touch the kind of abominations he brings into this van” Mama says fondly).

Leo takes to showing him how to prep Mr. Colds equipment and the few effects he uses during the show. The older man claims it’s because he’s getting close to retirement and needs to pass on certain things in case he, “throws his back out.” Given that Duck caught him doing Pilates on the floor of the hotel they stayed in last week, he thinks the odds of that are low. He suspects Leo had spotted the stars in his eyes that first day and is trying to be nice to the new guy by letting him get just a little closer to the rockstar. 

It almost feels like a normal job, just on a bigger scale than he’s used to. But every now and then he catches sight of his shirt with “Indrid Cold: Paranormal Tour” on the back and the words “Crew” beneath it and feel like he’s some kid who’s just gotten every birthday present he ever asked for all at once. 

The show tonight is very small, some kind of exclusive, intimate event where the proceeds go to The Okra Project. The band is halfway through their act, Mr. Cold introducing the next song as his favorite track from the new album. 

“Psst, Duck, gimme a hand?” Thacker is at his elbow, nodding towards two spare amps in the wings, “didn’t catch it until now, but those are gonna fuck up the fog flow for the last number.”

“Roger that.” He follows Thacker, casting one last glance at the stage before he grabs the small amp, lifts, and turns. That’s when he hears an unmistakable, electrical splutter. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

A peril of high quality sound equipment is that when it goes out, it’s very obvious.

The mic goes, his guitar and Dani’s bass cut out, and backing effects lights are gone. For a moment it’s total silence as the audience watches him. 

Then Indrid picks up exactly where he left off, notes coming as easy as breath. After a moment Jake starts up quieter than usual on the drums, giving him rhythm, and Dani picks up echoing him in all the right spots of the chorus. By the time he finishes, the mic and instruments are back on and the applause is deafening. He smiles to himself, then grins at the audience. 

He’s still got it.   
——————————————  
Duck knocks on the dressing room door. 

He’s so fucking fired.

“Come in.”

Mr. Cold is sitting at a mirror, takes note of Duck’s reflection as he shuts the door.

“Ah, Duck, I thought it might be you. Mama said you were the one who disconnected our sound tonight.”

“Yessir. I, uh, it was an accident, I was movin somethin in a tight space and caught my foot on the cord without noticin’. I’m, uh, I’m real sorry, it won’t happen again, and, uh, I’ll, uh-”

Mr. Cold holds up his hand, black nails facing Duck, and Duck shuts his mouth. The singer turns in his chair, face now free of make-up. His features still have that alien edge to them, the strange mix of young and old that’s made his attractiveness the subject of much debate. Duck knows where he falls on it; anyone who thinks Indrid Cold is anything other than sex on legs should get their eyes checked. 

That opinion won’t help him now, he knows that.

Indrid leans his arm on the top of the chair, “you don’t need to plead your case to me Duck, for two reasons. One is that I’m not the one in charge of hiring or firing the road crew. That falls to Mama and Joseph completely. If I ever tried to toss someone out for an honest accident they’d put me in my place very quickly. But more importantly, I’m not angry with you for what happened. Quite the opposite.”

“You…wait, really?”

Mr. Cold counts reasons off on his fingers, “The space was small, so everyone could still hear me. This should quash those rumors of my having a dub rather nicely, and” he looks at Duck over his glasses, smile widening, “it was unexpected, something that’s rare for me these days. When you get to this level of fame, everyone is terrified of what will happen if there is not a flawlessly executed plan. Even I become used to certain things feeling inevitable. But that is not how the world is; it’s not how art is. So it was nice to have the chance to show everyone that the unexpected can be invigorating. Thank you for that.”

“You’re, uh, you’re welcome?”

Mr. Cold’s keeps smiling as he stands up, “you should sit down, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“It’s fine, uh-”

The singer simply rests a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes downward. Duck sits, heart taking an unwelcome trip to his throat.

“Would you, ah, like a drink? The hosts here left a very nice bottle of tequila for me.”

“Sure.” Duck tries not to stare as Mr. Cold bends over to retrieve a glass and a bottle, pouring Duck a shot of tequila that costs more than his monthly rent. Duck mumbles a thank you when he hands it to him, then gawps when Mr. Cold sets the bottle aside and retrieves a Capri Sun from the mini-fridge.

“I can’t stand alcohol. I used to try for the sake of fitting in but” he makes a face like a disgusted cat, “eech. One moment, I need to change.” He disappears around a corner, leaving Duck to wonder what the fuck the polite thing to do is. Mr. Cold has continuously been polite to him, but he keeps to himself much of the time, far more than Dani and Jake do.

A photo on the table catches his eye, and he scoots his chair closer to get a look. It reminds him of the image of the cover of the first album The Cryptids ever put out.

“Was, uh, was this an alternate cover or somethin?”

“Hmm? Oh” a light laugh, “no, though you’ve got a good eye; we shot it the same day we shot the cover image for The Cryptids. That shot was nixed because we looked too silly, I think Vincent said something funny and cracked Barclay up, who set me off. I bring it with me to every show, a sort of good luck charm mixed with a reminder of where I came from.” 

From the faded photo, nineteen year old Indrid Cold smiles at him, silver hair blotchy with black and a little skinnier and sharper than he is now.

“I take it you’re a long time fan, then.” Mr. Cold reappears in a pink and yellow bathrobe, the last color scheme Duck assumed he owned. 

“Yeah, over a decade. I, uh, I was sixteen when The Cryptids released their first album. Scraped together fifteen bucks to buy the C.D and wore the damn thing out I listened to it so much.Dad was afraid I’d blow the speakers in the car with how loud I played it when drivin. Never heard anything like it. That’s, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “that’s not why I took the job, though. On, uh, on account of the fact Mama only let me know I was crewin for you once she hired me.”

“If you’re afraid of looking like a ‘fanboy,’ don’t be. Do you know how Joseph came to be our manager?” Mr. Cold sits down across from him. 

“Uh, story I always heard was he came backstage during a show on your first tour and offered.”

Mr. Cold chuckles, “he did. But what very few people know is that he came back in his lovingly homemade ‘Bigfoot’s Boy’ t-shirt and a lot of glitter–remember, that was the E.T tour so everyone was space themed–clearly having left the house with the intent of getting into our bassist’s pants. Instead he proceeded to tell us he’d seen how our manager operated through the night and we could so much better and enumerated all the reasons how that could be done.” 

“Jesus.” Duck giggles at the image. 

“He was remarkably intimidating in spite of the glitter and his argument was airtight. So we fired Hayes and hired him. He did eventually bang our bassist, but that was perhaps obvious.”

“Given that they’ve been married for like five years, yeah. Still can’t believe Barclay went from bein’ a rockstar to bein’ a chef.”

“He was always an ingenious cook. He once made breakfast using nothing but the still-hot engine of a mini-van.”

“AGH, god, why?”

“We were broke and hungry and there was nowhere to buy food.”

“That’s hardcore.”

“Mostly just oily.” Mr. Cold leans awkwardly back, one leg sticking out for balance, to grab another Capri Sun before continuing “hmm, if you were sixteen when we started, did you ever get to see us?”

Duck shakes his head, “only kinda. Y’all mainly played twenty-one plus places even after you started gettin big, then you weren’t tourin nearby. When you announced the farewell tour, my friend Juno and I drove to Richmond to hear y’all play from outside the stadium. She’s still got a picture of us from that night somewhere, all geared out, tryin to look cool enough to be there.”

“You’ll have to let me see it, so I can determine if you pass muster.” Mr. Cold teases. 

“I’ll ask if she can send me a copy. Christ, I remember bein’ so fuckin bummed when y’all announced The Cryptids were disbandin’, then so fuckin relieved when you said you were gonna keep makin new stuff and performin just as Indrid Cold. Your voice is fuckin amazin.”

“That’s not always the word used.”

“So you don’t sound like Bruno Mars or Ed Sheeran, big fuckin’ deal. You sing and people listen because they ain’t ever heard anyone like you. You sing like someone’s who’s been through the shit in your lyrics, and it gives your voice this whole other depth. No one in the world sounds like Indrid Cold.”

The singer gives him an odd smile, “that’s very kind of you to say.”

“Sorry, guess there’s still some fanboy hidin’ out under the roadie.” His cheeks heat up as he finishes his drink.

“I think we should both get some rest.” Mr. Cold stands, ushering him to the door, “and that we should talk again sometime. And thank you again, Duck, for your happy accident.”

‘You’re welcome, Mr. Cold.”

“Please” a famous smile, turned on him full force and as captivating as it was in that photo, as Mr. Cold rests his hand on Duck’s shoulder, “call me Indrid.”


	3. I Wanna Get in Your Pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck takes a ride. Indrid watches T.V. Dani has a hunch.

“You sure Indrid wants me on the bus and not just to, I dunno, load it?” Duck hovers by the massive black vehicle, bag over his shoulder.

“Yes indeed.” Ned gestures grandly to the open door of the tour bus, “now kindly get yourself and your bag aboard so we can get a move on.”

Duck climbs aboard, awkwardly sets his bag on the carrier shelf as he nods hello to Boyd. 

Indrid is lounging on a black couch, but sits up when he sees Duck, “ah good, you decided to join me.”

“Yep. Uh, did you ask me for a reason or…” he spots Indrid’s phone, still open to an article proclaiming how last night’s loss of sound proved that the singer has, in fact, been singing as himself this whole time. 

“Oh, so this was, uh, Mr. Chicane’s idea? As a reward for helpin with that who lipsynchin’ thing?”

Indrid cocks his head and blinks with such comic bafflement that Duck can see it through his glasses, “No. I said we should talk again, and I meant it. I, ah, I enjoyed it.”

Duck wants to point out that a god of the alt scene, a musical genius, a guy who could have anyone he wanted for company, seeming excited to hang out with a roadie is a bit confusing. But now doesn’t seem like the time to sell himself short. 

Indrid, meanwhile, is shoving drawings and notes aside so Duck can sit down next to him, “mind you, I don’t expect you entertain me or something; I’m working on some poster art right now, for that fundraiser, so if you have things you like to do on the road, you’re welcome to do them. My room is that way if you want to nap, and it has a T.V as well if you want to watch something, and you can have whatever you like out of the fridge. Oh, and we have wi-fi, of course.”

He sounds like a college kid showing off his first apartment and it wrong-foots Duck enough that he just grabs his book from the pocket of his bag, “Thanks, uh, think I’ll read for a bit.”  
Indrid grins, goes back to his drawing, pen scratching hurriedly as the bus jolts to a start and pulls onto the road.

After fifteen or so minutes, Duck notices Indrid is peering at the cover of his book.

“That was a movie, yes?” 

“Huh? Oh, uh, yeah.” He turns his copy of _Into the Wild_ over in his hands, “I saw it a few years back, but I really like the book better. I’ve read most of his stuff, and I, uh, I like how he don’t downplay the dangers of the natural world, but he don’t dismiss folks who got out into as bein’ morons. Would be real easy to talk about the kid in this book like he was just some rich boy who got it into his head to play mountain man and got what he deserved. But he actually tries to get in his head, figure out what makes someone strike out on their own like that.”

Indrid considers him carefully, glances back down at the book, “you wanted to do something similar, didn’t you?”

“Holy--yeah, uh, I did. Not quite as extreme, but when I was comin up on eighteen I considered just grabbin the first ride that came my way and gettin gone. Kepler’s my home town, and I love it, but it, uh, it wasn’t always easy growin up there.”

“I understand.” 

And Duck knows he does, knows from the few details in interviews that whatever Indrid dealt with growing up wasn’t fun. More than that, the two words slip out of his mouth as utterly, perfectly sincere. 

“I, uh, I even thought about tryin to hitchhike to every national park. Which, in retrospect, woulda been damn near impossible.”

“You know, I’ve never actually been to any of those.”

“Wait, really? Not even Yellowstone or the Grand Canyon?”

Indrid shakes his head, “we never stopped when touring, and when we’re not I, ah, well, I’m usually holed up my house like this” he gestures to the scattered papers.

“Fuck, you gotta at least drive into a state park when we get back. It’s worth it.”

“I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type.” The smile is self-deprecating, but it does explain why Indrid looks a bit sallow beneath his tan skin.

“Ain’t no such thing. Out of doors are for everybody. That’s the whole point of public lands. Just cause you can’t or don’t wanna climb Half-Dome or somethin don’t mean there’s no space for you out there.” 

Indrid makes a startled face and Duck realizes he put more force into those words than he meant to. He’s gearing up to apologize when that smile breaks out again.

“You know, I never thought of it that way. Perhaps when we get back, I’ll ask you to take me to some of the places you like.”

Duck’s brain skips like a scratched record over that sentence and all its implications. Indrid falters a little.

“If, ah, if that is of interest to you, of course.”

“Hell yeah.”

Indrid’s laughter almost sounds like a chirp, “wonderful. I had no idea this was such a passion of yours.”

“Heh, yeah. Used to cut school and sneak out into the woods to smoke or just to think and I kinda fell in love with it. I thought about goin’ into forestry or something like that for awhile. Juno actually did, and I’m so fuckin proud of her. Jealous too, sometimes. Uh, not that I ain’t fuckin thrilled to be here.”

“What made you choose this?” Indrid’s pen is no longer moving. In fact, Duck’s pretty certain it hasn’t moved since he started talking about nature.

“I loved music too. And, uh, there was someone in my life who encouraged me to get into it, try it for real as a career in some way. Didn’t pan out, and bein’ a roadie was a way to make money when I needed it. Turned out to be pretty good at it, and I like it fine.”

He feels old regrets knocking on his skull, so tries to turn the conversation a new direction, “your stuff was half the reason I loved music as much as I did.”

“What was your favorite album? Of The Cryptids, I mean, not my solo work.”

Duck taps the spine of the book against the table as he thinks, “I mean _The Cryptids_ has that whole edge by bein’ the first, because there was nothin like hearin’ your sound for the first time. But I gotta say… _Unsolved_. Whole thing is fuckin amazin, but your vocals on “To a Flame” still give me fuckin chills.”

“I haven’t played that song in a long time.” Indrid says softly, smile wistful, “it was always a favorite. I wrote it about someone I loved and could never have.”

“You can feel it. In, uh, in the way it’s arranged, the way you sing, gives this whole feelin of someone who’s decided to love with all their heart in spite of knownin’ they’ll never be loved back.”

Indrid looks at him a moment, that same odd, small smile he gave Duck last night quirking his lips, then returns to his drawing. Duck gets through another chapter before there’s a rustle of paper and Indrid turns the image he’s working on towards him. 

“What do you think?”

The poster reads “Halloween Ball 2020” in a classic schlock-horror font above the image of two figures, reveling in the blood dripping down onto them from the top half of the poster. Beneath the words “featuring Indrid Cold” are two red eyes and a Cheshire Cat smile. Duck looks closer; the red eyes are actually glasses, because there’s a reflection of a screaming face in them. 

“That’s fuckin baller man. Kinda reminds me of the album cover for _Cold Case_.”

“That was deliberate. Since this is getting auctioned off I wanted to include a nod that might appeal to my fans, encourage them to bid on it. You really do have a good eye.”

“I, uh, I had the poster for _Cold Case_ for years. I tended to collect your guy’s stuff when I could.”

(The poster is actually still up in his apartment. It’s a close-up of Indrid’s face, his glasses taking up the bulk of the frame. Reflected in them is a man, head thrown back in a scream that, upon closer examination, is clearly one of pleasure rather than fear).

“So I _did_ spot you in one of our old shirts the other day.” The taunt is gentle, but knowing enough that Duck loses his battle with blushing. 

The journey continues in that same rhythm; they read or draw or fuck around on their phones in comfortable silence, and then one of them will ask the other’s opinion or turn to show them something interesting on the screen or the page. When it comes time for bed, Indrid excuses himself with sleepy, “Goodnight, Duck” as the roadie shifts the couch into a bed, Boyd taking the one opposite him while Ned drives. 

That night, he dreams of a TNT plant and someone waiting for him in the darkness. Wakes up with his face smushed into black fabric and water running faintly in the distance. 

“ _...stage lights and Lear jets, fortune and fame. So in script that made prominent use of the pentagram they stenciled their guitar-heads and drums with their names.”_

Indrid is singing in the shower, somewhere just past his feet. That’s so fucking adorable, the idea of a rock god still singing while he showers.

Indrid is in the shower. Naked.

Oh god. 

He manages to distract himself from that train of thought until the singer steps out in his same pink and yellow robe, hair mussed and eye’s a bit unfocused without his glasses. 

“Your turn.”

Duck takes the fastest shower on record, the scent of vanilla body wash swirling around him all the while. 

He’s a little worried that the others will be pissed at him for getting special treatment, but no one says anything beyond asking how he likes the bus and how Indrid seems to be doing. 

Duck assumed the bus ride was a one-time deal, but when they’re next packing up he remembers he left his stuff in Indrid’s vehicle. The moment he climbs aboard, the singer perks up from where he’s nursing a mug of tea.

“Oh good! I was just about to send Boyd to grab you for me.”

Which is how Duck spends that night on the bus too. And the next, and the next, and the one after that. When he mentions it to Mama, all she does is shrug, affably.

“Indrid likes your company. That ain’t a bad thing. It ain't like you're half-assin' your work now that you ride on the bus. Besides, you not bein’ in the van means the rest of us can stretch out more.” 

When they hit a stop where they actually get to stay in a hotel, Duck is busy brushing his teeth when his phone buzzes. 

_Indrid: Want 2 come up?_

He does, grabbing his keycard before knocking on the suite door. Indrid beams when he sees him, then swipes a flimsy booklet from the bedside table, “Look, they have a channel with the new _Planet Earth_!”

“Hell yeah! That ain’t on Netflix for another month. Good eye.” He smirks when he turns Indrid’s common phrase back on him. The singer looks like he just won another Grammy.

He doesn’t get back to the room until three a.m, Leo teasing him by mumbling, “your mother and I have been worried sick” before turning over in bed.

The next day, he’s standing between the white van and Indrid’s bus, not wanting to presume. Boyd simply sticks his head out the door and calls, “get in.” 

They start out at the table, Indrid finalizing the poster drawing and Duck reading. When the road gets bumpier, they move to the couch that acts as Duck’s bed, since there’s a low table nearby. Duck pulls out his laptop and plugs in his headphones, pulls up another documentary he’s been meaning to watch as Indrid’s head starts drooping. Two episodes in, the singer falls asleep, flopping sideways so his head is in on Duck’s shoulder and then, with another jolt, in his lap.

He should move him, Indrid will probably think this is weird when he wakes up. Then again, he looks so cute like this, hair curtained over his forehead and lips making little sleep chirps and snores. Plus, it’d be rude to wake the talent up from his beauty sleep. 

Duck’s to the episode on jungles when a slender, tan hand reaches up and plucks his left earbud out. Startled, he looks down to find Indrid putting it on and adjusting his head in Duck’s lap, clearly engrossed in the carnivorous plants onscreen.

“Do you want me to just turn the normal sound on?”

“No” Indrid murmurs sleepily, back of his head resting on Duck’s belly, “this is perfect.”  
\------------------------------------------------------  
“What do you think of ‘Flytrap Heart?” Indrid twirls his pen in his fingers, wishing he’d grabbed his fidget cube from the trailer as well. 

Dani looks up at him, “For a song idea?”

“Exactly.” He trusts Dani’s judgement. She, like Barclay before her, has a good ear for lyrics, an ability to figure out the chorus when Indrid gets a little too deep into the question of what should be a verse and what shouldn’t. Jake isn’t half-bad either, though his gift is spotting when a song needs a change of tempo to really make an impact. 

“I like it. Good imagery.”

“Yeah, we could, like, do something with like goo. They have goo, right?” Jake swigs from his Mountain Dew.

“Not quite, it’s more to do with touch and enzymes. I think. But we’re on the same wavelength; I want some stickiness, something sweet in the melody.”

“Are you the flytrap, or is the person you’re singing to?” Dani has an image of a Venus Flytrap up on her phone.

Indrid thinks of green eyes, of sturdy shoulders and a cacophonous laugh. Thinks about clamping down so that he’ll always have them near.

“I am.”

Dani is jotting down words, grabbing the page of notes Indrid already has going.

“It, ah, it doesn’t bother you two that I’m suggesting a lot of things to do with plants?”

“Only if it bothered you when I spent two months only recommending ideas that had to do with fire.” Dani smiles, eyes flicking towards where Aubrey is chatting away on her phone. 

“Plus, plants are hella cool, dude!”

“Yes, yes they are. They’ve opened up some delightful new veins of thought; poison, growth, parasitism, getting lost in the deep, dark woods.”

“Kind of like a return to some of the earlier Cryptid’s stuff? Like “Nightfall?”

“Ooh, yes, that is what it’s conjuring up.” Indrid flaps his hands a moment, then grabs another piece of paper, “and it’s just given me an idea…”  
\--------------------------------------  
“Sooooo how’s it going with Indrid?” Aubrey plops down next to Duck at dinner.

“Good. Wait, shit, are people talkin about us?”

“Kinda? I mean, Indrid hangs out with the band, and with me, plenty, but none of us get to be on that bus. Not like I’m complaining, Dani and I have our own sweet ride. Jake and Stern are there too, I guess, but I don’t really cuddle them so, whatever.”

“There ain’t anythin goin on between us. It just…Indrid seem like he likes bein’ friends with me.”

“That’s awesome!”

“Yeah” Duck sighs, wistfully, “y’know, it’s funny. Even after I started workin here, in my head he was he was still Indrid Cold, the guy who sang like he was diggin down into the deepest part of me, who did wild shit like kiss his male bandmates on stage when it was still risky to be an openly gay artist, who was always so fuckin’ cool. And now he’s Indrid, this guy who’s kinda awkward and wears way more pink than I assumed he would and flaps his hands when he gets excited and somehow that’s even better.”

“Awww, someone has a cruuUUshh.”

“ _Had_ , Aubrey. Had.”

“Whatever you say, Duck” she winks at him, “whatever you say.”

The next morning, when his phone dings as he’s mid-sip of coffee, Indrid is sitting right beside him, stirring vanilla syrup into his mug.

“Looks like Juno found the, uh, the photo.”

“Let me see” Indrid grabs the phone from him as soon as the attachment is open, cackling with delight when he sees the image, “my, you two were really the pair of cryptozoologists, weren’t you?”

“Told you we were tryin too hard.” He can still see the picture a bit, his hair with a messy blue streak in it, the smudged make-up around his eyes, the spikes and studs on his wrist, belt, and shoes.

“On the contrary, I love it, it’s exactly the kind of self-expression we wanted to inspire in people. And it seems you really did like to collect our merch, that shirt you’re wearing was a limited run from the previous year.”

“I know. I, uh, I saved up for it, way I always did if something had art by you on it .” He slaps his hand over his mouth, embarrassed by the admission.

“That’s very sweet.” Indrid smiles at him, touched, then lifts his glasses for a better look, “what does the collar you’re wearing say?”

“I, uh, fuck, I don’t remember, got, uh, got amnesia, collar specific amnesia, fuck, uh-”

“C, O, L…you were wearing a collar with my name on it. Interesting.” He draws the last word out and when Duck hazards a glance at him, Indrid’s grin takes on a hungry edge, “someone has been downplaying _whose_ fanboy he was.”

“I, I didn’t want you thinkin I was creepy, or that I was just bein nice to you because of the crush I had on you in college.” It would be easier to get the explanation out if Indrid wasn’t staring like he could see into Duck’s soul. 

“I don’t, I promise, though I appreciate the consideration for my comfort. Ah, it looks like we’re getting close to Albuquerque, which means I need to put on pants. Here, I’m so glad Juno found it so I could see” he hands the phone back, but as Duck takes it the singer holds on for a beat, leans in and whispers, “but if you ask me, you really should wear a collar more often.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Indrid can’t get the image out of his mind. He had his suspicions, of course, given how Duck’s feelings about The Cryptids often center on Indrid’s part of the work. But there’s a chasm of difference between knowing Duck was (and is) a fan and seeing him, younger but just as handsome, with Indrid’s name around his neck. 

Luckily for him, tonight is one of the shows where he’s invited a guest guitarist. It’s something he’s done ever since the Cryptids disbanded. His own skills are nothing to sneer at, but sometimes he misses the days where Vincent played most of the guitar and Indrid just sang, moving about the stage unimpeded by an instrument. So when he can, he finds a promising young player in the city where he’s touring and invites them to play, giving them the set list two weeks in advance (although many of the kids he finds are fans, so often know much of his discography already). It lets him give the next generation some exposure, a large amount of money, and a rare opportunity to play with a legend (Ned’s words, not his).

All this is to say that he has more freedom tonight to channel his pent up energy from the image of Duck on his knees and grinning up at Indrid as the singer hooks a finger into the ring of a new, black leather collar. 

He sings “Cabin Fever” and “On the Prowl” like they were meant to be sung, the first a reminder that he’s still the worst nightmare of parents who want to keep their sons safe from the idea that men could love each other, the second to remind everyone exactly why it became a classic and earned spots on every “best songs to have sex to” list since it’s release. He wishes he could go all the way back and throw in “Goo-Goo Muck,” but it’s not on the set list and he doesn’t want to stress the guitarist out. But my oh my would it make for a hat trick of “I’m so horny I will devour you” songs. 

When they encore with “Stake Me” his knees are bruised from dropping and crawling, and he feels a thousand times more relaxed.

“Here you go.” Duck holds out his water, like always. He’s down to a tank-top, the July heat getting to all of them, muscles exceedingly noticeable.

Damn it.

“Thank you, Duck. You always have what I need.”

Double damn it. 

He didn’t mean to purr it out like that. At least Duck just snickers a little and hands him the bottle and a cold pack for his forehead. 

They’re in a hotel tonight, the Southwest chock full of enough pockets of weirdos to supply them with two days of sold-out houses in several cities. He’s so exhausted that he asks Stern to hold any and all news or notes for him until tomorrow morning. His manager simply smiles, managing to look like a proud parent in spite of being only a year older than him, and tells him to get some sleep. 

It’s only once he’s in bed that he understands sleep would be easier without the fantasies spinning through his skull. Fantasies that remind him that Duck is few doors down, asleep, but could be easily roused by a text or a phone call. Could be summoned here, could find Indrid panting in the dark, waiting to pounce. 

He groans, drags his hands down his face. He can’t; Duck is his friend. Duck _had_ a crush on past Indrid, does not currently have feelings for present Indrid.

Very well, he won’t think of present Duck. Or present Indrid, for that matter. 

Instead, he conjures up an image of the two of them, puts them both at nineteen because this is his fantasy and he can remove the age gap if he pleases. Imagines himself in the woods, imagines Duck as a boy he’s been flirting with for weeks, the kind of relationship--innocent affection building to much hotter, deeper desire--that his teenage self never really had. Wraps his hand around his cock as imaginary Duck opens his mouth. 

_“You wanna head back?”_

_“Not particularly. I like it out here with you, alone.” His lips on Duck’s neck, the shorter man moaning when he bites down._

_“Not scared of the dark?” Duck is teasing him, fingers playing at the edge of his pants, lips tasting like smoke._

_“No.”_

_“Me neither.” Duck eases them down, unbuttoning Indrid’s pants, “and I got things I been wantin’ to do. Like suck your dick until you fuckin black out.”_

_“Then you should get to it.” Indrid kisses his nose as he bucks his hips, pushing his cock into Duck’s hand before biting his shoulder hard, then his neck even harder._

_“Fuck! Shit, ‘Drid, feel’s so fuckin good, fuckin love it when everyone can see I’m yours.”’_

_“All mine, all mine, AH, ah Duck yes, yes that’s perfect, so perfect”_

In the bed, his hand quickens, pausing only when he has to lick his tongue across his palm for a bit less friction. He pumps frantically, picturing imaginary Duck’s lips damp and wrapped around him, throat tightening and voice moaning when Indrid grips the back of his neck. 

He cums with a whine, one that only grows louder when he realizes what he actually wants is to call Duck and ask him to come cuddle him. How on earth could he get that right now?

_Hello, Duck? Yes, I just came to the thought of us having sex as nineteen year olds in the woods and am feeling strange and exposed, please come cuddle me. I should have the cum cleaned up by the time you arrive._

Yes, that would go just swimmingly. 

He cleans up, tugs the sheet up around himself and then kicks them off when the texture doesn’t agree with him, and tries to fall asleep to soothing thoughts; Barclay’s eggnog, Dani humming a new melody, Duck laughing at something...

No, don’t think about Duck. 

Don’t think about Duck.

Don’t think about-

In the darkness, he finally falls into a sleep deep enough that, when he wraps his arms around his pillow and mutters “Duck,” even he doesn't really hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Indrid is singing in the shower is "The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton" by the Mountain Goats (though I think he sounds closer to the Laura Jane Grace cover).


	4. Goo-Goo Muck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck goes to a show. Indrid has some visitors. Boyd thinks no one on this damn bus is subtle.
> 
> Note: the people who turn up in Indrid's dressing room are groupies, not something actively exploitative.

Before setting out with Indrid Duck had forgotten this particular downside to life on the road: he has no fucking time or privacy to jack off. He’s always rooming with at least one other person, and the human to bathroom ratio is such that he feels like a dick if he hogs the shower to rub one out. 

Last night, their second in Albuquerque, he almost cracked, almost waited until everyone was sound asleep to sneak into the bathroom and get off to the image of Indrid coming offstage a few hours before. Soaked with sweat, eyes glinting behind his glasses, hand staying longer than it needed to when he took the water from him. Duck’s glad everyone was so beat they all went back to the hotel and collapsed; if Indrid had wanted him to come hang out, he might have lost the battle with his self-control, might have fallen to his knees, whimpering and nosing at Indrid’s robe until he opened it and gave him a treat. 

He’s finishing up in the bathroom as the others are packing, and he pauses in the mirror. 

_“You should wear a collar more often.”_

He brings his fingers up to his neck, curves them, wonders what Indrid’s might feel like instead. Duck’s fantasized about Indrid for years, in every bed he’s had since age sixteen. But that was Indrid Cold, rockstar, who Duck could project whatever he needed onto at the time. Indrid Cold who was untouchable, so far out of Duck’s orbit he may as well be mars. Now there was Indrid, just Indrid, who once apologized to Duck for making grilled cheese for dinner four nights in a row (“I have stretches where I like to eat the same food over and over”). Who keeps finding reasons to lay his head on Duck’s shoulder or his feet in his lap. Who can still make Duck weak-kneed and puppy-eyed when his smile turns from gentle to hungry. 

Indrid is his friend. Indrid trusts him, makes him laugh, maybe even flirts with him now and then. Duck thinks of himself as a decent catch, but even without the pedestal he knows Indrid is out of his league. 

Once everything is loaded he hops aboard Indrid’s van. Tries to ignore how happy Indrid looks to see him, the fact his smile is different than when Ned walked on just ahead of Duck.

“Duck! Come here, Barclay sent a video of Nessie burrowing in one of Joseph's sweaters.” 

He sits down on the black couch and Indrid immediately leans against him as he hits play on his phone. 

He’s just a friend. Duck doesn’t feel anything beyond that. Doesn’t want anything more either.

Fuck, he really is a terrible liar.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
_“Padded plush, sticky sweet, left wide open in the summer heat. You check me out, I seem alright, but I’m gonna eat you whole tonight. Oh! Don’t start Oh! Tear you apart. Don’t you know?...I got a flytrap heart.”_

Indrid looks up at his bandmates, then across at Stern, “that’s the general tone so far.”

“I like it. Can already hear the baseline.” Dani taps her temple and Jake nods, drumming on his knees. 

“I think it could be a good EP song, if it’s sharp enough.” Stern raises an eyebrow, “besides, the fans love horny Indrid.”

Indrid smiles, offers a sound of understanding, but his gaze is already slipping out the window to where Duck and Thacker are loading Aubrey’s van.

He certainly hopes they do.  
\----------------------------------------------  
“Are these yours?”

Duck shakes himself awake. They’ve been driving all evening and well into the night, on some god-forsaken chunk of desert where the towns never grow that big. He must have nodded off and knocked his notebook--the one he uses to keep track of certain notes--off the table. Which is why Indrid is now holding several sheets of loose paper. Paper he swore he threw away. 

“Shit! I mean, uh, yeah, but they ain’t anythin special.”

“I didn’t know you wrote songs.” Indrid scans the pages with a critical eye.

“Sometimes. Like I said, they ain’t anythin to make a fuss over.” 

_He took all the good ones. I got nothing left._

He makes to grab them back but Indrid simply says, “no.” It’s his normal lilt but there’s something beneath it, something that has Duck sitting backwards with his hands in his lap.

“Sorry, uh, just, most folks don’t think they’re any good.”

Indrid makes a noncommittal noise, the kind that suggests he’s far away. Then picks up his nearby guitar, tuning it, before murmuring gently, “you can go back to sleep, pet, I’m just going to fiddle about for a bit.”

Duck lays down on the couch, the nickname so natural he doesn’t even question it, and falls asleep to the sound of Indrid humming. 

He’s shaken awake two hours later, and is thoroughly confused to find Indrid in tight black pants and silvery shirt, black boots on his feet and a deep green-gold on his lips; that’s his stage-wear, not his pajamas.

“Put on your most punk-rock outfit, and make it fast.”

He digs through his bag for his old Cryptids t-shirt and along with black jeans that, if he does say so himself, make his ass look good. He’s tugging on his boots when the bus pulls into a dusty parking lot.

“I have located the only combination gay/goth bar in this half of the state. And I think they deserve a little show, don’t you?” Indrid explains as he pulls Duck out the door, Boyd following them while Ned stays behind to watch the van (“in case we need to make a hasty retreat”).

“Wait, holy fuck! I always thought that it was a myth that you would stop at random clubs and play.

“Not in the least, though it’s been awhile. Ooh, whoever is already playing sounds very good.” He pushes open the door, the smell of smoke, stale beer and sweat pouring over them in waves as they enter. Indrid keeps to the side of the room, holding Duck’s hand all the while, and navigates them to the tiny merch table with “The Hornets” painted on a yellow sign on the front. They look just like other couples Duck can see, and he holds Indrid’s hand tighter, just in case this is the last time. 

The young woman at the merch table does a double-take, gasps when Indrid leans down and whispers something to her. She nods, standing in a hurry. 

“Wait for me here.” He kisses Duck’s cheek and disappears into the crowd. Duck touches the skin, whole body ringing like he’s been stung. 

When the band finishes the song, the young woman waves them over to the side of the stage, strangers in the crowd turning to each other to ask what the fuck is going on.

The guitarist and lead singer reappears, giant H on their shirt, and grabs the mic, “y’all aren’t gonna believe this, but the Hornets have just acquired a new singer. It’s gonna blow your fucking minds. Give it up for one of the gods of horror-surf, the grinning man, the mothman himself, Indrid fucking Cold!” 

The crowd screams loud enough to shake an entire coat of dust from the walls as Indrid steps on stage, beaming and waving.

“Thank you very much, Hollis. I’ve got four songs for you tonight, including something very, very new. So, without further ado” he grabs the mic, flicks his hair with practiced ease, “let’s prowl.”

The Hornets launch into the opening notes of “On the Prowl,” the crowd cheering and hooting and singing along with so much energy that Duck can’t hear Indrid’s voice until the last verse. He claps along with everyone else as Indrid takes the mic off the stand, “and here’s one I haven’t sung in far too long.”

The bass and guitar start in a minor key, half country swing and half horror sting.

“ _Always on the outs, always in the dark._ ” Indrid shuts his eyes as he croons, “ _always so hungry for one little spark. Always so willing to play your game. What can I say? I’m a moth to flame.”_

Duck knows the song by heart but he’s never heard Indrid sing it live, like there was someone in the room he was hoping would hear it and know it was for them. He doesn’t breathe until the song ends; he doesn’t want to miss a single note, miss the way Indrid’s voice curls around the room as if searching for him. 

“ _just keep me near you, though I won’t get a turn. Your smile’s an inferno, and I’m happy to burn. I’ll always love you, you’ll forget my name. What can I say? I’m a moth to a flame."_

As the crowd applauds at the end, Indrid crosses to Hollis, who hands him their guitar. He loops it over his shoulder, returns the mic to the stand. 

“Now, this next song is very special, it doesn’t have an arrangement yet, so you’ll have to live with just my melodious voice.” He picks the guitar, brow furrowed in concentration, and Duck gasps. 

He knows this song, he’s just never heard it played anywhere but inside his head. It’s a little slower than he’d play it, but Indrid sings it flawlessly, the crowd swaying in time with him. He must have practiced non-stop while Duck was asleep. He...he must have liked the song.

The short song comes to a close and he tilts his head, “what did you think?”

The audience bursts out cheering and Indrid grins, “yes, that’s about how I feel too. I can’t take credit though, it was written by a friend.” He turns so Duck is in his sightline and winks.  
Duck is going to dissolve from happiness, poor Boyd is going to have to mop him up and carry him back to Mama in a bucket. 

Indrid returns the guitar to Hollis, nods to the band, and purrs into the mic, “ _the sun goes down and the moon comes up_.”

Shit how did he know? Does he know? He can’t know.

Indrid can’t know this is the song Duck used to jack off to. A cover of a cover, with a video where Indrid growls and purrs and nearly fucks the mic as he sings. 

“ _You better duck, when I show up, the goo goo muck_ ” he writhes in time with the music, “ _I’m a nightmare, honey, looking for some head_.”

God, fuck, how could he have forgotten just how Indrid sounds when he sings this? Like the monster under the bed came to life, turned out to be hot, and really wants to fuck you. Indrid is on his knees now, working the front row, dragging his free hand across his body with moans and screams between the words.

“He must really like you, mate.”

“Gahfuck, _Boyd_.” Duck jumps, but doesn’t take his eyes off the stage.

“I’m just sayin’, he’s never let anyone come to one of these before. I only do because Stern’ll kill us if we let him go without some kind of protection.” Boyd pats his shoulder, heading back towards the door. 

Indrid finishes the song panting, the Hornets looking harried from keeping up with his energy. As the crowd screams and claps he bows and hurries off the stage. In cries for an encore and the darkened house, Indrid finds him again, grabbing his hand and sprinting outside, Boyd jogging behind them. 

“God I missed doing that!” He laughs as they run, “did you have fun?”

“Fuck yeah, Indrid, fuck, you really liked my song?”

“Of course! And it seems they did too.” The bus doors close behind them, but Indrid doesn’t stop moving, “we’re both very tired, going to bed now, goodnight!” 

Duck’s about to point out he sleeps on the pullout couch, not the bed, when the bedroom door slams shut and Indrid yanks him into a kiss, tongue in his mouth and hands in his back pockets, groping him with a growl. 

He moans, prays the sound is masked by the engine, grips Indrid’s shoulders to steady himself as the singer pushes him closer, grinding so Duck feels his hardening cock through his pants. 

When Indrid breaks the kiss, Duck’s certain he has stars in his eyes. 

“Is this alright?”

“Hell fuckin yeah it is.”

“Good” Indrid shoves him backwards onto the bed, “shirt off.”

Duck obeys, Indrid stripping his own away and tossing it on the ground. As Duck fights with his jeans, realizing too late his boots are still on, as Indrid retrieves a condom and something black from a nearby box, setting them on the bed. He notices Duck’s wardrobe struggle and shakes his head as he prowls on top of him, “ah ah, we don’t have time for that.”

“Butmmmmfff” Duck gasps and moans as Indrid kisses him again, demanding and messy.

“Get them low enough for me to fuck you.” He bites Duck’s lip and sits up, wiggling his own black pants down enough to free his cock. By the time Duck gets one leg free, Indrid has the condom on.

Indrid tosses away his glasses, gives him a long once over, dragging his hands over his thighs and belly while licking his lips, “good boy.”

Then he’s on top of him again, cock inside him and fingers tangled in his hair. Duck yelps, manages to link his ankles over wiry calves. 

“Oh _fuck_ , you’re soaking, god, what got you so wound up, hm?” Indrid is grinning, licking teasingly at his throat.

“ _You_ , just you, watching you, Indrid, god please fuck me.”

“Gladly, goodness, fuck, that’s it sweetheart, you take me so well.” Indrid hammers into him again and again, kissing him each time he whimpers or moans, shifting up onto his elbows to better drive Duck out of his mind. 

Duck manages to get his head up enough to tease his tongue along Indrid’s nipple.

“AH! Good boy, mmmm, I knew you’d be perfect to fuck.” He adjusts so he can run his hand up Duck’s throat. There’s no pressure in the gesture, but plenty of possession.

“What do you think, shall we get you a new collar?”

“ _Yes_ , yesyesyes, Indrid, god, fuck please.”

“Oh you like that, mmm” he switches to slow, deliberate thrusts, a counterpoint to Duck frantically jerking hips, the combination making them moan in tandem, “we could get you several, how about that? I could put them on you according to my mood and what I wanted you to be for me that day.”

Duck means to say yes, whines and nods instead, grinning breathlessly when Indrid strokes his cheek.

“Good. I’d like it, too. Nnnh, god I’m close.” He stops entirely, awkwardly shifts and pulls them both about until he’s on his knees with Ducks ass in his lap, “but I want you to cum first.”

“I, I can try.”

“That was an order.” He reaches down, revealing the black object from earlier; a vibrating wand.

“Oh fuck yeah, fuckFUCK” his legs thrash when the vibe presses against his dick, “Indrid, sugar, ohmy _fucking_ god.”

Indrid grins, wide and wanton, and turns the toy up, eyes flicking between Ducks face and cock as he cries out and bucks his hips. 

“What a good boy, getting my cock so wet” he wiggles his hips with a moan, “you feel delightful when I use this on you, perhaps tomorrow I’ll have you sit on my cock and do the same thing over and over again, edge myself with the feeling of you wet and needy, tightening around me while you cum as many times as I see fit.”

“Indrid, fuck _please_ , yes, yes, fuck, I’m so fuckin close darlin, ple-fuck, ‘Drid!” He cums with groan, whole body shaking as pleasure overloads his nerves. 

The vibrator thunks to the floor as Indrid lunges forward, pinning him to the bed and fucking him hard and fast, cock thudding into him in time with his purring groans. 

“So, so good, my Duck, so very good, god, yes, yesyes” he’s moving so violently Duck is now grunting from the force of the impact, “that’s it, good boy, take what I give youAHHnnn, Duck, _Duck_.” His hips slow as he groans, Duck drinking in the sight of Indrid orgasmic and loving above him.

Indrid pulls out, condom hitting what is hopefully the trash and not his guitar case, and immediately curls around Duck, kissing his neck and face.

“Thank you, thankyouthankyou.”

Duck giggles, kisses him back, “why are you thankin me? I’m the one who just got to fuck a rockstar. You got to fuck some regular dipshit.” He bumps their foreheads together to show he’s teasing. 

“Incorrect. I got to fuck _you_. You, who are funny and charming and to the point, and who has taught me a remarkable amount about plants.”

“S’important to have hobbies.” Duck mumbles into his shoulder.

Indrid looks at him so tenderly he wants to cry. How the fuck does he take Duck from feeling like the perfect rock and roll boytoy to feeling like the most cherished thing on earth so easily? Some kind of mothman magic?

“Still with me, my sweet?”

“Uh huh. Just, uh, just feelin real lucky.”

“Me too.” Indrid nestles closer, kisses his collarbone. Duck goes to say something else and yawns instead. 

“Agreed.” Indrid mirrors his yawn, “I’m certainly worn out. Goodnight, Duck.”

Duck kisses his forehead, “G’night, sugar.”

Indrid chuckles, “Sugar. I like that rather a lot.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------  
Indrid means to rise early, perhaps make breakfast and coffee that he can bring to Duck in bed, kiss the shorter man awake and see that sleepy, wonderful smile break across his face. His smile like river, just crooked enough to be charming (unlike Indrid’s rather snaggletoothed one).

The problem is, neither of them set an alarm, which means they’re roused by Boyd knocking on the door.

“Know you fellas went through your paces, but Mama’s lookin for you Duck. Already time to set up.”

“Fuck!” Duck scrambles out of bed, pulling on clothes in a whirl before stopping and bending over to kiss the a still-groggy Indrid, “fuck, I’m so sorry to run out-”

Indrid cups his cheek, “It’s alright pet, it’s not like we won’t see each other again.”

Duck relaxes at that (after his breath hitches when Indrid says “pet,” which he stores for the future), blows Indrid a cheesy kiss as he hurries from the room. 

The show is earlier than normal due to noise laws in the city, so Indrid has to rise shortly after him anyway. The schedule is hectic enough that they don’t cross paths for more than thirty seconds before the show, and so Indrid channels all his excitement and filthy thoughts about what can be done in storage closets into his performance. 

He’s in the provided dressing room, having only grabbed his water from Duck a moment ago (being sure to kiss him quickly when no one was looking), when there’s a knock on the door. Odds are good it’s Stern (most productive option), Aubrey with Dr. Harris Bonkers (cutest option), or Duck (best option).

“Come in!”

A man Indrid doesn’t recognize enters, two young women decked out in his merch in tow. It’s so unexpected Indrid can’t get the rictus smile to leave his face. 

“Can I help you?”

“Mr. Cold! These lovely ladies are huge fans.”

“Oh, ah, that’s very nice to hear.”

Who is this man and why is he cornering Indrid with unwanted, unwarned social interaction?

“I mean the biggest. The kind who’d love to show their, uh, appreciation.” The man leers and winks, and Indrid understands. He’s met this kind before. 

“I’m sure you two are very nice. But I am gay.”

The two exchange a look and one says, “but not, like, gay-gay, right?”

“Please get out.” Indrid points to the door, and when he does nothing else the man shoos the two women out. 

“Goodness.” He mutters, shaking his head as he changes into his robe. There’s another knock, one that sounds a bit like Duck’s, and so once again he calls “come in!”

Stepping back into the main part of the room, he finds the same man, this time flanked by two young, attractive men. 

“Go away.” Indrid says flatly.

“But you said-”

“I said I’m gay, not that I was interested in any random hook-ups. I am not, please leave.”

“Mr. Cold, I’m staff at this venue, and it’s my job to ensure that the talent has all their needs met, courtesy of fans when possible.”

“Out.” Indrid hisses, and that actually does it. He can still be frightening when he needs to be, it seems. 

Would Duck like him a little frightening? Grabbing his collar and telling him he wasn’t going anywhere until Indrid was done with him?

He’ll have to ask, to see if Duck would like that or something softer, or perhaps to be the one in charge from time to time. Indrid would be happy with all of those outcomes, so long as they involve Duck. 

By the time he leaves the dressing room, he’s humming happily once more. Duck isn’t on the van, but they’re not quite done loading (this place is horribly laid out, they’re never booking it again). Then an hour has passed and there’s still no sign. Indrid grabs his phone. 

_Me: are you riding with me tonight? Would hate to leave you behind._

The message come through as read, and the response is much shorter than the time Duck was shown to be typing suggested.

_Duck: Feel like riding in van tonight._

Well, that’s fine. Maybe Duck just wants to catch up with his friends, or maybe he’s a little worn out and knows that if they end up in bed together, neither will get much sleep.

_Me: That’s alright, say goodnight to everyone for me. See you tomorrow._

_Duck: Will do._

Indrid hesitates, then sends one last message. 

_Me: Sleep tight, sweetheart <3_  
\---------------------------------------------------------  
_Indrid: Sleep tight, sweetheart <3_

Duck stares at the text, then shoves his phone into the seat pocket and rolls over. 

Sweetheart. Yeah, one of many. Duck saw those guys going into his dressing room with a fella who’d had a staff pass to the venue, and had opted to be as far away from the room once they went in. They looked like fucking models. They looked like the kind of people Indrid is supposed to be with. No wonder Indrid’s only texting him now. 

They’re not boyfriends, they’re not dating, they never talked about being exclusive and Indrid doesn’t owe Duck loyalty. 

But Duck doesn’t feel like being anyone’s second choice tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter:
> 
> "Goo-Goo Muck" by Ronnie Cook
> 
> Lyrics to "Flytrap Heart" and "To a Flame" by me.


	5. Trapped Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid makes a call. Duck takes a bath. Leo knows what's up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Mentions of Duck having a shitty ex, specifically someone who uses a gendered slur when Duck wants to be called "pet."
> 
> I'm giving Duck slightly more insecurity than I usually do for a few reasons: he's younger than in canon, so is still figuring out how to really believe he's hot stuff, and I feel like basically anyone would feel a bit insecure (at least at first) if the person they were into was famous enough to have horny fans.

Indrid has made a mistake. Now if only he could figure out what it was. 

Duck has declined to ride with him the last three nights and two days. Indrid tries not to be disappointed at first; after all, Duck doesn’t owe him his company. He’s allowed to ride or sleep where he pleases, to spend time with people who aren't Indrid. All the same, Duck had seemed so eager to join him before. Now he’s almost avoiding him, as much as his job will allow. Which means disappointment as morphed into concern. 

His first thought was illness. Maybe Duck is sick and trying not to give it to Indrid. But he shows no signs of being under the weather. 

Last night, it occurred to him that there was a far more terrible explanation. What if he had gone too far that night? What if he’d hurt Duck without meaning too, or made him feel used? The train of thought was so awful he’d curled up on the bathroom floor, certain he was going to be sick. 

He ached to text Duck all through the drive today, but couldn’t settle on what to say, too afraid of making things worse if he phrased it wrong. The situation hasn’t been helped by the fact that this leg of the tour has been even more hectic than normal, so he’s had no chances to pull Duck aside and ask if he’s alright. 

Now, however, he’s standing in the empty, silent suite in the Hilton somewhere outside of Vegas. For a solid minute he stands by the bed in dim light, staring at the hotel phone. Then he pulls out the notes Stern gave him about who was in what room, picks the receiver up, and dials.  
\-------------------------------------------------  
Duck knew who was on the phone the instant Leo picked it up and smirked. 

“Hey, Indrid. Yeah, yeah we’re settlin in fine. Got that room service you ordered for us, that was a real nice touch so thanks. Yeah he’s here. Okay, I’ll tell ‘im.”

“Indrid wants me upstairs?”

“Only if you wanna go. He was real clear about that. Literally. He said it twice.”

Which is why Duck is now standing in front of the door of suite 4. Maybe Indrid just wants to hang out, even if the thought of going back to that after the way he kissed him makes Duck twinge with disappointment. 

He knocks, and there’s the soft vibration of someone hurrying across the floor on the other side of the door. 

“Duck?”

“Yep.”

A _clickthunk_ of the locks turning and then the door opens, Indrid stepping back just enough to allow him inside. Once it’s shut the singer stays in his space, though he doesn’t touch him, gazing down shyly over his glasses. 

“I missed you.”

“Missed you too.” Duck’s voice is sticking in his throat. The words aren’t a lie, that’s half the trouble. He tries for levity, smiles “even if I just saw you a few hours ago.”

“Mmmm” Indrid hums, seeming encouraged by his demeanor, and leans down to kiss him innocently on the lips. 

Duck kisses back, forces his feet to stay planted, his back to stay to the door, to keep himself from falling into Indrid’s arms just yet. 

Indrid sighs happily, traces more kisses along his lips, then out to his cheek.

This is more than he’d ever thought he’d get with Indrid. He should be happy, should be grateful, should take what he’s given because even if Indrid Cold isn’t _only_ kissing him, he’s still kissing him sometimes. 

“Duck?” The lips on his jaw pause, “is everything alright?”

He’s tensing, he can tell. He needs to relax, not fuck up what might be his last chance, just treat this like a hook-up, like his heart isn’t protesting every goddamn step of the way.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Indrid’s hand rests on his cheek as he gazes at him. 

“Noth, fuck, nothin, uh, nothin is-”

“Oh, oh goodness.” Indrid steps back so fast his robe swishes, removing all contact and giving Duck an easy exit around him, “oh Duck I’m so sorry, I, I thought, I thought, that is I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

He looks frightened, and Duck tries to turn the pieces of the puzzle into place to figure out why.

“You didn’t. You ain’t. Or, uh, it’s just, fuck. I can’t say it, I sound like some jealous teenager.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I ain’t comfortable bein’ just one record in a rotation, y’know? I, I thought you, I dunno, you saw me as somethin else. Not just another groupie you could fuck when you needed to.”

“I…”

He rubs his face, “Nevermind. Like I said, it’s fuckin ridiculous. You ain’t my exclusive boyfriend, I got no right to be jealous. Ain’t even anythin wrong with bein casual or a one time thing I’m just, I’m fuckin pissed at myself for lettin it sting so much because I got my hopes up. You ain’t my boyfriend.” He repeats that last sentence more to himself than to Indrid. 

“But I, ah, I want to be.” Indrid’s fingers are tapping together anxiously. 

Any and all ambient sound disappears beneath his heartbeat, “You wanna be my what?”

“Boyfriend. I, I didn’t want to presume, so I planned to ask the day after we slept together but there wasn;t time, and then you wanted space so I thought it best to wait.”

“You...want me to be your boyfriend.”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.” Indrid replies matter-of-factly. “Who else would I have sung ‘Midnight Lover’ for last night? That wasn’t even on the set list until you mentioned it was your favorite of my love songs.”

“You’re were singin’ that for me? But I, those guys-”

“Which guy--oh I am going to murder that man. In my dressing room at Albuquerque?”

“Yep.”

“Ughhhhhhh” Indrid tilts his head up to the ceiling, frustrated, “he was some obnoxious staff member who got it into his head that his job was to find me some groupies for the night. You must have left quickly, I threw them out after only a few moments.”

“Why?”

That confused blink again, “Because I was not interested. Do you honestly think I have sex with anyone who offers? That I’m that shallow?” Anger is beginning to creep around the lines of hurt on his face. 

“Never said I did. Just that, well, you’re you and a rockstar to boot. You got your pick of fellas, and I, uh, just assumed you’d pick..” he stares down at his shoes, “...the best one.”

“And what exactly suggests you are not that for me?” Indrid crosses his arms, but his voice is gentle. 

Duck shrugs, feeling cornered by his own insecurities and Indrid’s attention. 

“Do you know when the last time I had sex was? Other than a few nights ago? A year and a half.”

He looks up, shock overriding shame,”wait, fuck, really?”

“Really. In my early days I did have quite a lot of sex, in back rooms and vans and all sorts of places. It was fun, and it was heady to have people throwing themselves at me after years of being seen as the creepy kid. But lately that no longer holds the same appeal. The last few times felt like I was the notch on someone’s belt, a story they could tell their friends. I wanted to be wanted for my whole self, not just my persona.”

Duck’s absolute asshole of a brain demands he argue, tell Indrid that he knows a thing or two about not being wanted and that there’s no way in hell Indrid would really choose him.  
His common sense wins out, and he chuckles, “Kinda ironic, ain’t it? That the person you decided to fuck is someone who woulda been throwin’ himself at you back in the day?”

Indrid smiles, steps so they’re once again toe to toe, “I suppose it is. And while the image of you on your knees in your full cryptozoologist outfit, saying you’re such a fan, that you’ll do anything I want, is appealing, I rather like the way we met.” He brushes their noses together.

“Me too.” Duck cups his cheek, and rises up to kiss him. He gets a little sigh as a reward, wraps his arms around Indrid’s waist and feels his whole body shake when he pulls him close.

God, if Indrid has thought about him so much, put a song into the set just for him, then he knows exactly how much Duck has ached to touch him the last few days. Must have been dreaming about some of the same things. 

“Seemed like you were anglin for something when I came in.” He whispers, kissing a line down his neck.

“Mmmm, so I was.” Indrid tilts Duck’s chin up so he can dive down and attack his throat with kisses, tugging the neckline of his shirt down to nip and suck at his chest. 

“Fuuuuck, ‘Drid.” Duck’s head thunks back just as the singer begins purring out a laugh.

“I do so love hearing you say my name like that. I wonder if I can make you do it again.”

With that he drops to his knees, pushing Duck’s shirt up and kissing his belly, biting his hips and laughing whenever he cries out. 

“Such lovely sounds, but not what I’m looking for pet.” He bites down hard below Duck’s bellybutton.

“‘Drid, please, Indrid, want you so bad sugar.” It should feel staged and stilted, like he’s performing for some egotistical dom in a shitty porno, but instead it pours out of him eager and happy; he wants so badly to please him, loves the thought of obeying just for him.

“Much better.” Indrid kisses the new bruises. He looks up, brown eyes blown wide over the rims of his glasses, “undo your pants for me.”

Duck wishes he’d changed into sweatpants for bed, rather than still being in his jeans, because he’s once again fighting with his wardrobe while Indrid Cold looks ready to fuck him into the next century. As soon as the zipper is down Indrid grabs his belt loops and yanks, bringing his pants and underwear down to his ankles.

“I’m going to suck you off now, my sweet. Would you like that?”

“Fuck, yes.” Duck’s mind is skipping and restarting every time he registers that Indrid is on his knees for him, that a star of every teenager fantasy is lazily licking at his inner thigh.  
Indrid leans forward, drags his tongue just below Duck’s dick. Kneads his thighs with his fingers as he does it again, flicking eagerly across his folds before taking his dick into his mouth. Duck moans, bucks forward, and promptly finds his hips gently but firmly shoved back.

“Did I say you could move?”

“N-no, sorry, just felt so good.” 

Indrid glances up at him, eyebrow arched, and Duck whines high in his throat.

“It’s alright, pet, I didn’t tell you, so how could you have known? Here” Indrid takes Duck’s hands, rests them on the back of his head, “you can hold on to your hearts content, but the rest of you is to stay still until you finish.”

Duck nods, threads his fingers into fine, silver hair, manages to do nothing more than grip and moan when Indrid teases his tongue along the tip. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

“Somethin else is though.” Duck mumbles, unable to stop the goof, and Indrid laughs, rubs his cheek against Duck’s stomach. 

Then Duck loses the ability to think about anything other than Indrid’s mouth on him and his order to stay still. A lot of his past partners have half-assed blowing him, claiming lack of familiarity with his anatomy. Indrid has no such hesitations, glasses up on his forehead and mouth working steadily once he finds the rhythm that makes Duck’s nails scrape along his scalp. Whenever Duck gets particularly loud Indrid hums with either pleasure or contentment, and the fact he can experience either, or maybe both, with his head between Duck’s legs sends him over the edge abruptly. He hunches forward, hugging Indrid to him. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , sweet merciful fuck, ‘Drid, that was so fuckin good, shit, sorry, I moved.”

Indrid shushes him, trails his hands up his body as he stands up, steadies Duck as he pants into his shoulder, “That’s quite alright, sweet one. You did so well, even at the end. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not terribly interested in punishing you for slip ups. I prefer, what is it called...ah yes, positive reinforcement.” With that he kisses him, lips still slick from making Duck cum so hard his legs may be malfunctioning.

Duck means to say something charming and funny, but then Indrid is murmuring “good boy” in his ear and all he can manage is “thank you.”

“Such lovely southern manners.”

“Wait, ain’t you from the south?”

“I’m from Fresno. Not terribly illustrious, hence my deliberately obscuring it in interviews. Though, it’s not all that far from Yosemite. Perhaps we can go see both at once sometime. As a reward for surviving the tour.”

“I’d like that.” 

“Speaking of rewards” Indrid presses against him, nosing along his jawline as his hard-on bumps his belly, “are you sore at all?”

“I’m a roadie, sugar, kinda part of the gig.” 

“True. Oh, that reminds me, is there enough leg room on the crew van? Barclay and I used to end up with such horrible cramps from cramming ourselves into one in the early days, I’d hate for anyone else to be dealing with that.”

“There’s plenty, darlin, I promise. Now, who’s gettin rewarded?”

Indrid smirks, “both of us, if my hunch is correct. Go into the bathroom and turn the tub on, please. And wait for me in it. Ah, naked, of course.”

“Don’t go for the wet t-shirt look?” Duck teases as he strips his shirt off under an approving gaze. 

“No, though we can experiment with that another time if you wish. Now, go.” He points to the bathroom and Duck soon discovers why he said “turn on” and not “run” the bath. The focal point of the bathroom is an immense whirlpool, already filled and rippling. He sticks his hand in, bumps the temperature up since he knows Indrid likes it hot, and switches on the bubbles. He sinks down with a sigh, turning when he hears Indrid removing his robe.

“Fuck” He’s never seen him all the way naked and he would like this to be the only thing he sees from now on. 

“Likewise.” Indrid is eating him up with his eyes as he approaches the tub. Instead of joining Duck, he perches on the edge, like spread so Duck is between them and, more importantly, eye level with his cock. 

He didn’t get a great look at it a few nights ago, but now it’s all his vision lets him take in. It’s perfectly average in the grand scheme of things, but he’s already building a shrine to it in his head. 

“Are you planning to touch as well as look?” Indrid tilts his head. 

“I, uh, um” god is sex with Indrid always going to short him out like this.

“It’s alright if you prefer the latter.” The singer’s hand slowly circles his cock. “I’m happy to put on a show.” He starts stroking, moaning softly, “but I thought you might like a taste.”  
Duck doesn’t have to say a word; his expression is lustful enough that Indrid laughs and says “alright, one moment” before opening the condom he brought with him. Duck rests his head on his knee, smiling like a fool as he slides it on. Indrid runs a finger through Duck’s hair, and Duck follows his hand as he guides him to his cock. 

“Open your mouthAH, ahhhhnyes, good boy.”

Duck takes another inch at the praise, braces one wet hand on Indrid’s hip and the other on the base of his cock, the water splashing around his torso as he moves more vigorously. Indrid’s hands are splayed on the ground, black metallic nails glinting in the light. 

“Ohhhhh, this is even better than I imagined it would be. Your mouth is, is AHnn, exquisite. Ahgod, yes, do that again pet, please, yessss.” Indrid is carefully thrusting up, and Duck moans as his cock bumps his cheek.

“I think I’ll, nnnn, add this to my morning routine. Fuck that handsome face of yours before breakfast, then bend you over the table afterwards.”

Duck whimpers, slides his hand along the tile until he finds Indrid’s fingers. He tugs, and Indrid offers no resistance as he guides his hand to the back of his neck.

“I see” Indrid keeps a firm grip, not painful or pushing, and it’s exactly what Duck wants. He wants to know Indrid has him, that Indrid will keep him where he belongs and take care of him. He wants to know this is real. 

The tiniest squeeze on the top of his neck and he moans so messily spit dribbles down his chin, works his hand and tongue frantically.

“So good, my sweet Duck, that’s it, letting me fuck you like this, making a mess just for me, I--oh, ohoh _oh_ yes, mmmmmmm” He flops backwards, both hands on the floor again, as he finishes, pumping slowly in and out of Ducks mouth as the last of it leaves him. 

He pulls out, bends forward to kiss Duck’s head, “won’t be a moment.”

Duck rests his face on the wet tile, warmth seeping into him, as Indrid tosses the condom and slides into the bath beside him, wiry arms immediately around his middle. He’s humming again, nuzzling Duck’s neck and hair as he does.

“‘S’it hot in here, or is just me?” Duck murmurs, gradually spinning so they’re facing each other. 

Indrid snickers, “Both, I would say. Was all of that alright?”

“Fuck yeah. Sugar, you could get me goin’ readin the phone book in that voice of yours, but I’d be lyin if I said the way you’ve been takin things is a way I really, really want ‘em.”

“Oh good.” Indrid rests his head on Duck’s shoulder, “you rather like it when I call you pet, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Duck shifts, remembering how the one time he asked for something like this his partner’s instinct was to call him “bad boy” and “bitch” and tease him, asking why he wasn’t barking no matter how many times Duck reminded him he just liked the name, just liked the idea of being looked after by someone sometimes. 

“Would you like me to have that put on a collar for you? Perhaps for days when one or both of us is in the mood for you to be on your sweetest behavior so I can dote on you to my heart’s content.”

“I...is that really somethin’ you’d like? To just, uh, have me laze around and be spoiled.”

“Absolutely. But if it’s not of interest to you, that’s completely alright.” 

He means it. Duck can tell without even having to meet his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’d, I’d like that a whole lot.”

“Are there others you’d like?” Indrid floats over to the control panel, poking it until the water lights up a soothing blue-green. 

“Wouldn’t mind one for days when we, uh, wanted me to, uh, lean into the whole, uh, fanboy thing. Y’know, days when you feel like makin me do whatever you want, be as mean or as rough with me as you pleased, and I'll do it without complaint because you're Indrid fuckin' Cold."

The fluttery “oh” suggests Indrid doesn’t mind this idea either. He splashes back over, settles in Duck’s lap to kiss him sweetly, and the conversation drifts in other directions. Once they’re dried and curled up together beneath crisp sheets, Indrid grabs his phone and brings up several collar options for Duck to examine, making notes on his preferences and asking him what else he’d like to try. It’s only when Indrid is prodding the same “save” button over and over that Duck points out they should go to bed. 

Indrid asks to be the little spoon and Duck thinks heaven might be looping his arm over that lean waist, soft, moth-patterned pajamas brushing his arms and chest, as he peppers Indrid with kisses and feels him giggle in response. 

He catches sight of the door, remembers the argument, and a voice deep in his mind tries to clamber to the surface, remind him of how this went last time. 

Then Indrid sighs in utter contentment as he nestles further into Duck’s arms, and he decides that for tonight, no bad thoughts stand a chance of touching him. He and Indrid are together, and that’s all that matters.


	6. Blue Moon Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid does some shopping. Duck listens to music. Stern is hard to shock.

“Oh, the things I have in store for you.” Indrid purrs, peering into the tastefully unmarked bag in his arms. They’ve made it to San Diego, and Indrid made use of his famous name and his mountain of money to insure that the custom collars were waiting for him at a sex shop downtown by the time they got here. 

“I get to know what they are?” Duck lays back on the hotel bed, smirks when Indrid pauses in his thoughts to ogle him.

“All in good time, pet. The collars are here, of course, as are some new toys I think you will enjoy, and some, ah, supplies to help make sure you can’t escape unless I want you to.”

Duck’s toes curl at the thought; he adores sweet Indrid, but whenever he glimpses a more menacing side to him in bed, all his blood heads south. 

“Here, let’s try these on to be sure they’re comfortable.” Indrid sits on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to him. Duck scoots over, Indrid kissing him before rustling through the bag. He removes a deep green collar, leather on the outside and lined with velvet on the inside, with “pet” spelled out in bronze letters. Twirls his finger so Duck turns his back to him, letting him slip the collar around his neck. Indrid is humming “Queen of Pain” as he tests the buckle, searching for the right level of tightness. 

“How is that?” Indrid slides a finger under the collar.

“Good.” Duck mumbles, leaning back against Indrid. The collar is unclasped and pulled away, Indrid kissing the back of his neck as it is. 

“Now, you asked me to surprise you with the second one. Eyes closed, please. Good boy.”

Duck’s sigh catches on his tongue as cool leather circles his throat. He reaches up on instinct to feel it, only for Indrid to catch his wrist. 

“Come now, pet, you can wait just a moment more.”

He rests his hands in his lap as Indrid fiddles with the buckle, testing and adjusting the collar with the utmost care and oh god, _god_ , is this what it’s like to have someone in control who doesn’t see him as a means to an end, but as something to be cherished?

Indrid cups his cheek, turning his face towards what Duck assumes is the mirror, “you may look.”

The collar is black, with the letters C.O.L.D set in silver. Unlike the green collar, this one has an o-ring, and as he runs his fingers over the leather and checks himself out he wonders if Indrid has a matching leash for it in that bag. 

“Fuck, looks way better than the one I made. Then again, guessin whoever made this didn’t have to swipe his mom’s iron to put the letters on.”

Indrid wraps his arms around Duck’s middle, rests his chin on his shoulder and watches him in the mirror with unbridled glee, “You really like it?”

“I fuckin love it.”

A soft nip, just below his ear, “something you wish to say, pet?”

“Thank you, sugar.” Duck turns, kissing him slowly and whining without meaning to when he removes the collar. 

“We have to head to the venue soon, there’s no time to get into any of this tonight.” Indrid sounds disappointed, “and I don’t think Joseph will let me claim illness when what I really have is Duck fever.”

Duck snorts out a giggle, “careful, you don’t treat that you end up with blue balls and a useless knowledge of _Tony Hawk Pro-Skater_ ”. 

Indrid laughs, kisses him indulgently, and puts the bag somewhere safe. 

The next morning, more than one review of the show mentions that, while Indrid was electric onstage throughout, he shone brightest when singing about sex. Duck turns bright red when Aubrey reads that aloud and proceeds to bounce her eyebrows at him for a full minute, Dani and Mama losing their collective shit at the look on his face. 

They only have to get from San Diego to L.A today, but the southern California freeway system has other ideas. 

“No wonder Joe put a whole day in for travel.” Duck stares out the small window in Indrid’s room, the bus gridlocked on all sides. The sound of Boyd cursing American infrastructure and car culture can be heard all the way back here. 

“Yes, we learned that the hard way. It does, however, give you and I ample time to try something.” Indrid locks the door and retrieves the green collar from it’s hiding place, “it doesn’t have to be sexual in the slightest, but I thought it best for you to test out wearing the collar for a bit, to make sure you’re comfortable in it.”

Duck leaps to his feet and Indrid’s smile turns filthy, “Eager, are we?”

“You know it, sugar.”

Once Indrid has secured the green band and planted kisses all across Duck’s face, they settle into their separate activities, Duck playing a game on his phone and Indrid working on new material. He plays out notes and tries chord after chord, scribbles rhymes on a sheet of paper, humming under his breath and muttering as he works. 

As the song takes shape, Duck realizes he hasn’t looked down at the game for at least ten minutes. For one, he’s never seen Indrid work quite like this, completely enveloped in is songwriting. But more than that, he’s never had Indrid singing quite so close to him. It’s intimate in an entirely new way, and he feels like he’s a teenager again and his boyfriend has just said his parents are gone all night; like anything is possible. 

“Duck” Indrid lilts, “come here, please. Lay down next to me.”

Duck obeys, sighing as he rests his face against Indrid’s thigh. Indrid strokes his hair and offers a “good boy” before trying out the verse he’s been working on once more. No backing, no effects, just his voice, imperfect and also the most beautiful thing Duck’s ever heard. And here, resting against him, it seems as if the beautiful thing is reserved for him alone and the very thought makes blush and shut his eyes, as if that might hide the fact he’s not sure if he’s even worthy of such feelings. 

“You like it when I sing to you.” 

He looks up, finds Indrid staring down at him with unobstructed eyes, his glasses tilted up his forehead.

“Yeah, uh, I mean, ain’t that kinda obvious from all the fanboy stuff?”

“No, on stage I’m singing _for_ you, for everyone. Just now I was singing _to_ you. And you were almost crawling in my lap just from a few rough verses.” He nods his head down and Duck notices he had been creeping over, his head now on Indrid’s leg and his arms clinging to him. 

“Guess uh, guess it does feel more, uh, romantic.”

“Shall I do it some more, pet?” 

Duck nods, because if he opens his mouth he’s going to whine like a dog left in the rain. 

Indrid tunes for a moment, stretching his legs out so Duck can better lay his head on them without getting clonked by the guitar. 

“ _Well down on the edge of town, there’s a guy they say gets around. But what nobody knows, and nobody sees is that his one and only lover is me_.”

“You’re a merciless man, Indrid Cold.” Duck has to look away as the notes of one of his favorite songs fills the air, “gonna make me turn red, and I ain’t exactly pretty when I blush.”

The notes stop, and are replaced by Indrid’s voice, cool and gentle, with an undercurrent that makes Duck instantly want to obey, "None of that, pet. I love looking at you, so handsome and flustered. When you have that collar on, no bad words about yourself. Can you do that for me?”

Duck nods, shudders when Indrid draws a nail along his lower lip.

“And I want you to watch me while I sing. I love the color of your eyes, I could write a whole album about them. So, be a good boy and let me see them.”

He turns to look, and Indrid smiles when their eyes meet, “there we are.” He pets Duck’s cheek a moment before picking back up in the song, “ _Midnight lover, midnight lover. He waits for me every evening, and I think about him all the day. I know there’ll come a time when his hand is mine, and he’ll up and steal me away_.”

Indrid plays three more songs, all ones he knows Duck adores, pausing only to kiss him or sprinkle him with praise.

“As much as I’m enjoying this concert for one, I ought to get back to this.” He taps the notes for the new song.

“S’okay, thank you so much for that sugar it, it was amazin’” he’s feeling a bit foggy, that all that matters is letting Indrid take care of him. 

Indrid regards him a moment, secretive smile forming on his lips, “I think you’ll stay right here, pet, while I work. Keep me company and offer a nice view as well.”

Duck nods, adjusts slightly so his head is in easy reach of Indrid’s hands. At first Indrid simply plays with his hair or pets him as he writes. Then the singer rolls away, tells Duck to be a good boy and wait right where he is. After a moment he returns, and there’s a tear of packaging and the pop of a lid being unscrewed. 

“Open”

Duck opens his mouth, giggles a little, giddy, when candy coating hits his tongue and he understands what Indrid brought back. Apparently the singer plans to feed him peanut M&Ms by hand as he composes. Even better, the removed lid belongs to a kind of fancy apple juice that Duck admitted to liking in a post sex haze a few days ago, and Indrid leaves the bottle where Duck can reach it. By the time Indrid sets his guitar aside, Duck is melty all the way through, soaking in the sea of praise and encouragement Indrid has spilled across the room. 

“What do you think, pet? Should I reward myself for my work today?”

“Uh huh.” Duck kisses his arm because it’s close and he wants to.

“What I have in mind involves you and is decidedly sexual. Is that alright?”

“Uh huh.” Duck hopes the tone of the syllables conveys what his oxytocin saturated brain can’t, that he wants nothing more than have Indrid in his arms, fucking him however he wants.

“Wonderful.” Indrid pats his cheek, “clothes off.”

As Duck disrobes Indrid grabs the bag, back to Duck, and grumbles as he works a silicone shaft into something Duck can’t see. 

“Blasted...snaps...ahah! Now, be a good boy and put this on for me.” He turns with a flourish, showing a green leather strap-on harness sporting a cock that’s definitely not meant to be human.

“It’s the, ah, Mothman model.” Indrid grins, a little sheepish, and Duck makes desperate grabbing motions at him until he climbs back onto the bed. It’s a different harness than he’s used to, so it takes a moment for him to wiggle into it and get it situated comfortably.

“How do you want me, sugar?”

“On your back. I want to see exactly how good you look while I’m riding your dick.”

Well, stick _that_ in the column of “phrases he’d never thought a rockstar would say to him.” Duck groans, mouthing Indrid’s shoulder a moment before reclining into the mattress. 

The singer strips off his clothes, grabbing lube and straddling Duck with a little growl.

“So handsome. And all mine.” His hands skate along Duck’s arms, down his chest, pausing to rub his belly a moment and then squeezing his hips and thighs, “Are you going to be a good boy and fuck me exactly how I ask you to?”

“Guhuh.”

“Perfect.” He bends forward, kissing Duck’s nose, then guides Duck’s right hand along his ass. 

“Holy fuck, when, when did you put this in?” Duck presses the base of the small plug and Indrid gasps happily. 

“When I went to get you your food. I, ah, I suspected things might go this way from how much you were moaning every time I put my fingers to your mouth.”

“It’s so fuckin hot sugar, you spoilin me like that. Like this.” He squeezes Indrid’s ass with both hands and the singer laughs. 

“I’m glad you like it, pet. Now kindly take out the plug so I can get situated.”

Duck eases the plug out, watching Indrid’s face the entire time. The view only gets better when he lines himself up and sinks down an inch on the toy. He’s biting his lip, going red from his collarbone up, and is concentrating on taking Duck in inch by inch the same way he concentrates on perfecting a song. 

The clock stops ticking entirely as he watches him, hands on his thighs to steady him if need be. Time is no longer measured in seconds, just in micro-expressions of pleasure as works his way down. When he’s finally all the way seated, cock most of the way hard, he stares down adoringly at Duck.

“Mmmmm, I do so love the way you’re built.” His hands trace circles on Duck’s chest and belly, “so strong, so sturdy. But with just enough soft bits to make you comfortable to lounge upon.”

“Lounge on me whenever you like, darlin.”

“So accommodating.” Indrid hooks a finger under the collar, guiding him halfway up for a kiss, “I’ll do that later. Right now, I want you to use all that muscle to fuck me.” He takes Duck’s hands, bring them to his hips. 

“Like, uh, like this.” He bucks up slowly and Indrid purrs.

“Ohhhhhh yes, but I know you can go harder.” He tugs playfully on the collar. Duck growls, pushes up as hard as he can. Indrid yelps, then laughs, “exactly, yes, oh _yes_ , fuck, good boy, keep doing that.”

He thrusts eagerly at the praise and Indrid’s wide, mischievous grin suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing when he moans, “that’s, that’s perfect pet, my pet, my perfect one, my Duck, fucking me just how I like.”

Duck means to growl again on the next, but it comes out a pleased whimper on the next thrust. 

“Hmmm” Indrid tilts his head, hair falling across his eyes, “I think you deserve even more of a reward. But what should itAHgod, be...ahAhhhhh, yes, that will do.” He drops forward, smothering Duck in kisses feeding him moan after moan as digs his fingers into his hair. It’s harder to keep up the pace from this angle, and Indrid is barely taking any of his own weight. Duck is huffing out breaths in between groans and words of thanks, sweat streaking down his lips and stinging his eyes. 

“Fuck, fuck, sugar I, I ain’t sure how much longer I can keep given’ it how you want it.”

Indrid sits up slightly, swiping his hair back up his forehead, “very good, pet, telling me when you’re at a limit. Just for that, I’ll cum on you rather than the bed.” He reaches between them, letting out a high, ragged moan as he strokes himself off. Duck keeps up the pace as best he can, kisses wherever he can reach. 

“Yes, yes, ohgod, goodness that’s perfect, right there, good boy, ohDuck, _Duck_.” Cum spurts across Duck’s belly and drips from Indrid’s fingers as he rests his head on Duck’s shoulder, shaking through the aftershocks. 

“Was, was that what you wanted?” Duck asks softly.

“Completely. Which AHnnnn” he winces as he pulls off, “begs the question: how would you like to cum, pet?”

“Anyway that lets me kiss you.”

Indrid wipes his hands on his discarded shirt, “that can be arranged.”

Then he pounces, using the collar to pull Duck into a kiss while he shoves his other hand between his legs. 

“Good boy, already so wet from fucking me.”

“Nnnnfuck, ‘Drid, sugarAHFUCK” Indrid curls his fingers and, after a moment of searching, has reduced Duck to a babbling mess. 

“That’s it, pet, fuck yourself on my hand, let me find out just how it feels when you cum on my fingers.” He keeps their lips close, nipping at Duck’s whenever he whines then teasing his tongue along the red spots, “my my” he swipes this thumb across Duck’s dick, “someone close already?”

“Yes, fuck, please, wanna be good for you, please darlin I wanna cum so fuckin bad.”

“You can, sweetheart, whenever you like. Until then…” he slams their lips together, tongue slipping in to find Duck’s own, holds him like that until Duck’s whole body tenses and he cums on the world’s most talented fingers. 

As he’s panting on the pillows, Indrid gingerly undoes the collar and sets it aside. Helps Duck undo the harness, then opens his arms so the shorter man can nestle into them. 

“You did so well. Did you like all that?”

“So much.” Duck tucks his head beneath Indrid’s chin. 

Wiry arms wrap around him as Indrid murmurs, “Oh good, I did as well.”  
\-------------------------------------------  
The knock on the bedroom door has Duck blinking his eyes open. The van doesn’t seem to be moving, so hopefully that means they made it to the hotel and not that they’re broken down on the side of I-5. 

Man, his legs are sore. He assumed their session with the collar would satisfy them both, but an hour later he’d been overcome with the need to kiss Indrid silly, and soon he had the singer on his hands and knees, head turned to kiss him over and over as Duck fucked him again. 

Another knock, and Indrid mumbles, “c’min.”

Stern steps into the bedroom, phone in his hand and Duck experiences the unpleasant realization that he is a) naked in Indrid’s bed and b) completely clueless as to whether Stern knew this was happening between them or if he’s about to ask Duck what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. 

“Oh good, I was hoping you’d both be here.” Stern sinks into the sole chair, “and you can stop holding your breath, Duck, I’ve known about you and Indrid for a week; you two are not exactly subtle. All that matters to me is that everything is consensual and that you both still do your jobs.”

“Thank fuck.” Duck collapses backwards.

Stern smiles, “Also, it’d be a bit hypocritical of me to scold you for sleeping with him, given how Barclay and I met.”

“Very true.” Indrid yawns, sitting up, “no where is my, ah, there it is.” He flips the covers off himself, standing to grab his robe.

“Uh, sugar?” 

He has to know he’s still naked, right?

A laugh from Stern, “There were a lot of close quarters in the early days, I’ve seen every member of The Cryptids with their dick out at least once.”

“I memory serves, the first time you saw Barclay changing you-”

“ANYway, I wanted to talk with you both about this.” He gestures to the pair and the rumpled bed, “specifically, if you want to go public and how.”

“Absolutely” Indrid is speaking before Stern is done, “Duck is not my dirty little secret, and I will not hide him like one.”

“Duck, are you okay with everyone and their uncle knowing you’re Indrid’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah? I mean, guess I wasn't really thinkin about that part of it. I just wanted to be with him. If I gotta deal with people speculatin’ about me, strikes me as a fair price for getting to be his."

Stern nods, “Right, then the question becomes how you want to announce it. Indrid, I know you don’t love doing big announcements about personal things on your Instagram, but this might be the time.”

“No” Indrid fidgets with the sleeve of his robe, ‘I, I don’t want Duck to seem like something I’m doing for publicity.”

“Then the other option is to have the news broken when someone snaps a picture of you two kissing or something. That gives us far less control of the narrative, and neither myself nor Ned is comfortable with that. Not to mention that looks like you were trying to hide it and failed, or worse, that you’re not fully comfortable being seen dating a man.”

Indrid frowns, paces as Stern taps his foot, thinking. 

“What if we let ourselves get caught? ‘Drid and I could, I dunno, go out to dinner or somethin, knowin full well people would see and talk about it. That way we’d be prepared, but if people started askin why we didn’t make a big announcement, we could point out that it don’t feel like the kind of thing that needs one. You’re a fella, same as anyone, and the fact you like someone don’t mean you gotta make a big announcement about how Indrid Cold loves bears." 

Indrid blinks at him, “You’re more like a teddy bear. You’re also on to something.”

“And knowing when it’s coming will help us prepare. Hmm, how about we plan on doing this in San Francisco? You two can go to The Arch, they have the best brunch in town.”

Indrid smirks, “Joseph, are you perhaps saying that because Barclay is head chef?”

“No, it’s objectively true.” Stern says, business like save for the smile trying to turn his lips. 

“Then it’s decided” Indrid sits on the bed, taking Duck’s hand, “when we hit San Francisco, it will be time for the world to know just how lucky Indrid Cold is.”

Indrid kisses his hand and Duck beams, picturing the two of them in some cozy coastal restaurant with everyone around them going bonkers, while Indrid only has eyes for him. It’s enough to make him forget about who might come crawling out of the woodwork when word gets out.

“Hell yeah, sugar” he gives Indrid a teasing smile and a peck on the cheek, “I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Queen of Pain" is by the Cramps. Lyrics to "Midnight Lover" by me.


	7. Blues, Blues, Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck gets a smoothie. Ned throws a party. Stern tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: There is discussion of Duck's ex in this chapter. It is implied he was/is manipulative to the point of emotional abuse. No detail is given, but it's clear he was shitty to Duck, including referring to "roid rage" when he starts T.

They’re in L.A for a week, but only playing two nights. Indrid has explained, flapping and gesticulating eagerly, that he has two tracks ready for an E.P and the idea for a quick and dirty video for one of them. So the rest of the time in town will be spent recording and shooting before they head up the coast. 

Which is why Duck is currently snoozing in Indrid’s hotel room, glad for the protection from the summer heat. 

A knock on the door and a peek through the keyhole reveals Aubrey, and he opens it with a grin. 

“What’s up, Lady Flame?”

“Dr. Harris Bonkers is bored. Also me. I am bored because my super cute girlfriend is in the studio all day. You wanna go get lunch?”

“Sure, lemme put on some real clothes first.”

“Sweet! That’ll give me time to get him ready to go.”

Duck meets Aubrey at her and Dani’s room just as she finishes securing the rabbit in one of those pet-pod backpacks.

“Don’t worry, he has a cooling pack in there to keep him comfy.”

This turns out to be a very good call, because soon they’re wandering through the heat sink of concrete, locating a nearby outdoor mall. They settle on some place called Green Moon, which serves sandwiches and smoothies that seem to contain more supplement powders than actual fruit.

“Not gonna get the Love Potion?” Aubrey elbows him as the cashier rings them up. 

“I don’t need an aphrodisiac. Indrid’s his own.”

“Oooh, smooth.” Aubrey hands over her card, and once they’ve paid she heads off to find a table on the shady back patio. Duck waits for their order, sipping his smoothie when it comes up first. It tastes like green and not much else, aside from chia seeds, and there's a peace symbol drawn in the foam. Southern California is wild.

“Duck?”

He’s lucky he doesn’t drop the cup on the ground at the sound of that voice. Then he’d have to clean it up and be unable to escape. 

“Holy shit, it _is_ you.” Alex steps in front of him, and Duck struggles to match his genial greeting; hard to smile when the last time they stood face to face he was breaking up with the guy because he was tired, so tired of being treated like shit by someone who kept saying he could do better, could find someone who was more supportive, more giving, better looking, but wouldn’t do Duck the courtesy of leaving him. Because that would make Alex a bad guy, and everyone knows Alex is a chill, woke dude. 

“Hey. You, uh, you here on a trip?” 

The kid behind the counter calls out for number 50, and Duck looks down and his receipt with #57 on it and winces. 

“Nope! Once I left my dead weight behind, it was easy to come out here and get hired.”

“As what? A pool boy?”

“Ha!” Alex throws his head back, “still as funny as ever, Wayne. No, I’m working for a record company. Turns out I really have a knack for lyrics. What are you doing in L.A? Doesn’t really seem like your vibe.”

“Oh, uh, I’m with a band, tourin’.”

“Still doing the roadie thing? That’s impressive man, most people move on to bigger and better things after awhile.”

He grips his cup, “this ain’t no tiny indie tour; I’m workin for Indrid Cold.”

Alex’s eyes widen, and he actually shuts up long enough for Duck to keep talking. 

“Yep, Minerva gave me a recommendation and I charmed the shit outta the interviewers, so now I’m workin for the best in the business.”

Alex is still silent, gawping, and Duck itches to tell him the rest. 

“ _Yeah, and get this dipshit, Indrid Cold is my boyfriend. He thinks I’m handsome and hangs offa me like I’m the star and not him, and he don’t try to claim my work as his own, and he actually buys me gifts and does shit just for me because he ain’t insisting that showin a fella you like ‘em is ‘playin into heteronormative expectations.’”_

He can’t though; they agreed on the San Francisco plan, and he can’t change that on Indrid without warning. After all, Indrid wouldn’t do that to him. 

“Wow.” Alex raises an eyebrow, “I knew Indrid Cold was big on charity, but I didn’t know he based his hiring on it.”

“Fuck. You.” Duck growls. 

“Aww, nice offer, but you might want to save it for when Indrid Cold gets bored and fires you and you need a new gig.” He smiles, the expression charming to anyone but Duck, who recognizes the contempt in it, and his phone dings, “Looks like my art calls. See you around, roadie.”

Duck contemplates hurling his drink at him, but he’s already sauntering out the door. 

“Uhhhh who was that?”

He jumps, turning to find Aubrey with a water glass in either hand. She looks down, adds, “Figured fancy smoothies aren’t enough to stay hydrated like we should.”

“Uh, how, how much did you hear?”

“None of it, ‘cause it’s loud in here. But you look really, really pissed, which worries me. And, like, sad, which worries me more.”

“He...he’s an ex. My last serious boyfriend.”

“Ohhhh” Aubrey nods as they call their number and Duck grabs their tray, following her to the patio, “no wonder. Sorry you had to run into him."

“Thanks.” He picks up his sandwhich, puts it back down, “can you, uh, not tell ‘Drid about this?”

Aubrey frowns, but then shrugs, “Okay. But, like, you know he won’t be mad at you for having an ex? And he cares about you and wants to help you after a shitty thing happens?”

“Yeah. I know.” And he does, he _knows_ , it couldn’t be clearer, but being reminded of Alex starts an entire playlist of doubts in his head. They eat in silence, and Duck wishes he hadn’t brought the whole damn outing down. 

“Hey, you wanna see Dr. Harris Bonkers do a trick for this piece of kale?”

He smiles, “hell yeah.”

“Okay Doctor, stand up, good bunny AH don’t eat the table cloth!”

He cackles, feeling better, and helps Aubrey wrangle the fabric-hungry rabbit back into his carrier.  
\----------------------------------------------------  
“Once again, thank you all for coming today on such short notice. I promise we will make it worth your while to partake in this video process, and compensate you handsomely-”

“Wooo! Get those dollars daddy!” One of member of the flock of drag queens (and kings) calls, mercifully interrupting Ned and giving Stern a chance to step forward. 

“Anyone who’s already made up and costumed, go with Ned to the Horror Cabin to start working out the staging. If you still need to get ready, we’ve got the Dolly Cabin set up for that. Drac and Swan, you go with Ned, everyone here trusts your eye when it comes to organizing this bunch. Gavin, you and Indrid won’t start until noon, but you should start working out staging over in the Twin Peaks Cabin. We have an hour before we start shooting, so get to it.” 

Duck and Leo narrowly avoid being run over by the group rushing to the make-up cabin. Indrid spots Duck from a ways away, blows him a stealthy kiss before heading towards his designated spot. 

They’ve rented the entire set of cabins from the Budvsille Mountain Retreat, a selection of themed cabins located in the mountains East of L.A, to shoot the video for “Let Me In” the B-side to “Flytrap Heart.” Like the best of Indrid’ music, it’s at once an outsider's plea to be wanted, a lover’s desire to be close, and a horny motherfucker’s need to be inside a partner.

_“Those are both real horny songs, sugar. I mean, in a good way. In the way that makes it clear you see the person as a person but stil wanna fuck them into the ground.”_

_Indrid raises an eyebrow, purring, “I wonder where I’d get such feelings? Ah well, it’s a mystery.”_

_“Show you a mystery.” Duck pulls him into a kiss, Indrid laughing as he does._

The premise of the video is simple; in one cabin there’s a wild, joyfully weird party raging, courtesy of every drag performer with a yen for horror that they could get on short notice. In another sits a man, an exaggerated version of the clean-cut, closeted twink. Over the course of the video, Indrid moves from one cabin to the next, begging like a vampire to be let in, to let him show the other man just how wonderful the night can be, before stalking through the house and making good on the promise to “show you what all the howling’s for.”

Duck and the rest of the crew are on hand to wrangle actors, help with tech, and generally keep things from erupting into chaos. Ned is directing the hastily-hired camera crew, and Aubrey is helping with the final looks for Indrid, Dani, and Jake.

It is, in other words, a blast. Duck’s never worked on a music video before, and in spite of the fast pace, he likes watching his friends (and his boyfriend) show off their skills in a new context. 

After lunch, Duck is helping with the finishing touches for the second cabin when Indrid appears, still in his “costume:” Black pants, black and silver boots, and a white shirt torn to look like he’s been rending it with claws. His glasses are on, his lips painted matte black, and Duck only holds off on wolf-whistling because they aren’t alone. In fact, Indrid is busy talking with Gavin, the two clearly reviewing their blocking for the shoot. 

“Ready, gentleman?” Ned claps his hands together. 

“Very. And unless you tell me otherwise, I shall be playing this like the monster under Gavin’s bed came to life and really wants to fuck him.”

Ned and the camera crew laugh, and Indrid beams, pointing over at him, “I’m glad you like that, it was Duck’s description.”

(He mentioned it in bed a few days ago and Indrid had preened, saying that was just what he was going for.)

As the shoot progresses to the inside bits, Duck feels a familiar, unwanted knot in his guts. Indrid and Gavin have made it to the bed, Indrid lipsynching to the track as he paws and claws at the other man, sex in every inch of his grin. 

It’s fake. Duck knows it’s fake, knows it’s part of Indrid’s job. Hell, he even likes Gavin, the guy chatted with him at lunch and turned out to be funny and a native plant enthusiast to boot. But the playlist that started yesterday is back full volume, and Alex’s warning about boredom spreads through him, worming it’s way into every crack of his mind. 

Maybe he should have yelled at him to fuck off, not growled it, as if the volume might have protected him from the words getting under his skin. But Alex always had a knack for winding Duck up so he’d be the one to yell first and then make a crack about roid rage while Duck fumed.

“Leo? I need to borrow Duck a moment, that won’t be an issue right?”

“Course not, Joe.” 

He hadn’t seen the manager come in, nor had he noticed him watching him until just now. 

“I need help cleaning up the first cabin, there are a few things that need moving that I can’t lift on my own.” He says as they walk under the pines, the scent of dry earth and drier needles filling Duck’s nose. Duck just nods, and as they reach the door Stern adds, “it really can be hard at first.”

“W-uh, I, uh, I don’t, uh, fuck-”

“Duck, I listened to your interview, so I know you can’t lie. And I know discomfort when I see it. Watching Indrid pretend to be with someone else bothered you.”

“....a little, yeah.” He mumbles as Stern closes the door behind them, “feel like such a dipshit that it does. I fuckin know it’s fake!”

“I know you do. But it takes feelings awhile to catch up with thoughts sometimes. I...even after I was managing The Cryptids, I had a hard time believing Barclay would ever want me the way I was starting to want him. He was a star, people were sending him love letters and nude pictures in their fan mail, coming backstage to proposition him the same way I did--or, um, meant to--and I remember wondering why on earth he’d settle for me if he could have any and all of that.” He sits down on the couch, lounging in a way Duck isn't used to seeing from him. 

“How’d you stop? Thinkin that, I mean.” Duck sits down next to him.

“I worked on unlearning some bad things I’d internalized about myself. And I trusted Barclay to be truthful with me. But it, um, it helped that Barclay demonstrated he was worthy of that trust. Over time it just got easier.” Stern turns, pinning him under his bright blue eyes, “have you told Indrid about how you feel?”

“Yeah. We, uh, we had an almost-argument about it. He knows I don’t always feel like I...it ain’t even that I don’t think I deserve him, though that comes up sometimes too. It’s more that I don’t think I’ll ever really have him, like somethin’ that great is only gonna be in my life a few seconds and then move on.”

Stern nods, stays silent for a moment, then says softly, “do you know one of the first conversations I had with Indrid after I started dating Barclay was?”

“No.”

“He pulled me aside and asked me if I needed him to stop kissing Barclay during shows. I was surprised, then I remembered he’d done that the night before, and it startled me that I had this...gut reaction of jealousy. I felt terrible that he noticed. But he said that Barclay and I were his friends, and he wanted to be sure he wasn’t unintentionally hurting one or both of us. He also said, and I quote, ‘it’s not as if kissing only Vincent is some terrible burden.’ It gave me a chance to actually think about how I was _really_ feeling, underneath that gut reaction of insecurity. And I realized I was okay with it. That it was part of the show, part of their brand at the time, and part of who they were as performers. It didn’t mean anything about how Barclay felt about me.”

“I guess it’s good he asked.”

“It was, but I brought that story up for two reasons. One is to remind you that you're not the first ‘nobody’ to date a Cryptid; if you ever need to talk about it, you can come find me. And two, Indrid is often far more observant than people give him credit for.”

Duck thinks about the last few weeks, and even back to the first week he rode with Indrid. The singer showing him things, giving him things, because he’d noticed what Duck was reading or how he was feeling. 

“Yeah, he really is.”

Stern pats his shoulder, awkward but sincere, “now let’s move this furniture back so we don’t get charged extra for this cabin.”

By the time they’re back, Indrid and Gavin are nearly done shooting, and Duck finds he already feels more comfortable. Something about Stern’s reassurance that he wasn’t the first person to feel this way makes it easier to lower the volume on the playlist of self-doubt. 

When the shoot is done, Duck and the rest of the crew finish getting the cabin tidied and moving equipment back into its proper homes and making sure no drag queens missed their ride home. The band and the crew are staying out here tonight, so Duck’s not surprised when he gets a text from Indrid telling him to come to Universal Monsters Cabin where he’s staying. 

Duck knocks, and the door swings open inwards. The cabin is dark, and he doesn’t see his boyfriend. 

But before he can call out in search of him the door slams shut and locks, revealing Indrid hiding behind it. He’s grinning, all hot menace and palpable want, as the black collar dangles by its ring from his finger. 

“I get the sense” he says breezily, as if he can’t tell that his demeanor has Duck two seconds away from dropping to his knees, “that you felt neglected these last few days.”

Duck shakes his head with an earnest, “No.”

A tilt of the head, “you haven’t been out of sorts in the slightest?”

“I...I, uh, had a bad insecurity flare up yesterday. It started up again today but I got a handle on it.”

“Well….” Indrid draws the world out as he strolls over to him, undoing the collar with an added snap of leather, “in that case, I think it’s time I reminded you who you belong to.”


	8. Creature From The Black Leather Lagoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern argues. Indrid rewards. Duck is exhausted.

“Color system?” Indrid’s eyes don’t leave Duck’s face. They agreed that they’d use that if one of them needed to safeword or check in, but Indrid has never led with the question before. Which suggests he has something nefarious planned, and Duck wants to crumple into his arms and beg him to do his worst. 

“Yeah, that works.” He manages to whisper, feeling warm at the understanding that Indrid would have waited, patient and loving, for hours if Duck needed time to think about and agree to this. Would have backed down immediately if Duck said no.

Indrid lunges, kissing him fiercely and wrapping the collar around his throat in one motion. Duck moans, frankly a little impressed and a lot turned on that Indrid can get it fastened without looking. The singer pulls back, and Duck tries to step forward to follow him, to show he’ll be good and do whatever he wants. Instead he’s twisted in a sharp half-circle as Indrid grabs the O-ring and pulls, turning and then dragging Duck down the dark hallway into the bathroom. 

The bathroom light flickers on, the fluorescents making Indrid look alien and luminous as he roughly turns Duck by his shoulders so he’s facing the mirror above the sink, Indrid looming behind him. His glasses are still on, making it harder for Duck to read what’s coming. 

Instead of going for the collar, Indrid grabs his chin, forcing his gaze to stay on the mirror. 

“What does that collar say?” His voice is firm, not angry but woven through with enough implied threats and rewards that Duck’s knees wobble. 

“C-cold?” 

“Correct. And what does that mean?”

“I.. it, uh, it-” With all the lust flooding his circuits, he’s lucky he’s getting even those words out. 

“I’m waiting.” Indrid sing-songs, free hand finding the front of Duck’s pants and undoing the button.

“Means I’m yours.”

“Correct again. No one else wears a collar like this. What does that tell you?”

“That, uh, that there’s only one?”

“Incorrect.” Indrid yanks down Duck’s zipper, “it means I am _yours_ as much as you are _mine_. And you deserve to be mine, don’t you?” The singer leans forward, rubbing their cheeks together as both his hands shove Duck’s pants and boxers down to his knees. 

“I…” 

The playlist roars back full force, and he understands why Indrid asked him rather than stated he deserved it. He wants the truth.

“I ain’t sure.” He hangs his head, knowing that wasn’t the right answer. Indrid cups his chin, not pushing but guiding it up to meet his eyes in the mirror. 

“Thank you for telling the truth. I know that can’t have been easy to say aloud.”

“Ain’t like I can lie.”

“But you didn’t even try to. You trusted me with that unpleasant truth. Thank you” a tender kiss finds his cheek even as Indrid nudges his feet to go as wide apart as they can while still trapped in his pants, “tonight I fully intend to show you exactly why you are mine. And since I am well aware I cannot fuck your doubts away--at least not completely--I will settle for having you in such throes of pleasure by the end of all of this that you won’t have room for doubt or anything else in your mind. You’ll be too overcome by me.”

“‘Drid.” He gasps, the promise making him shiver from head to toe. 

“Mmmm, I know, pet. You like that idea, because you know what you’re really good for is being my plaything. Hands on the sink, and they had better stay there. And keep your eyes on the mirror.” Indrid makes quick work of his own zipper, grabs a condom from his pocket (Duck can tell by sound) and rolls it on. Duck white-knuckles the sink, so turned on he feels it in his fucking toes. 

“Good boy, staying just how I ask you too.” Indrid distracts him with a kiss on the neck, meaning he’s unprepared for him shoving his cock in all at once. He yelps, pushes back to show this is exactly what he wants, that he’ll take whatever pace or depth Indrid desires. The singer thrusts back and forth, slowly, moaning and messily spreading kisses across Duck’s shoulders.

“How do you like your “ he snaps his hips, “reward?”

“A lot, I like it so fuckin much sugar please.”

“Please what, pet?”

“Just...please. I wanna feel like I’m yours.”

“You are” Indrid purrs, reaching up and around to tug the collar, “remember?”

Duck moans as the leather pulls against his skin, glances at Indrid’s reflection to see him cock his head. 

“Or do you need a more severe reminder?”

Slowly, Duck nods. 

“And that would be?” Indrid trails his fingers down off the collar, traces his nails in circles on Duck’s throat, his hips moving slow and steady, as if he wants Duck to remember who’s inside him. Who his body belongs to.

As if he would forget. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The unhelpful part of his brain telling him to forget because he clearly imagined the unrestrained, multi-layered want Indrid feels for him. So he’s going to ask for something he hasn’t wanted in a long, long time. 

“I, I want, I want you to, uh, mark me.” He sees Indrid’s eyebrow arch, likely remembering Duck telling him he wasn’t big on pain in bed.

“I, ever since you pretended to bite that guy in the, the “Cabin Fever” video, kinda, kinda been a fantasy of mine.”

“Really?” Indrid’s drawing out his words again, “you used to lay in bed, hoping you’d wake up to see me at the foot of it, waiting to devour you?”

He nods again, whimpers when Indrid presses a thumb to his neck. Indrid grins, makes certain Duck is paying attention before licking one of his canines, “I think that can be arranged.”

Duck’s not certain if the bite or the thrust comes first, just that his hips bang into the counter and the exact instant Indrid sinks his teeth into the base of his neck.

“FUCK!” He tries to squirm away from the pain on instinct and gets a hand in his hair for his trouble.

“I am, nnnn, doing what you asked, pet. The least you can do is stay put.” Indrid bites out before biting down, this time on his shoulder.

“I’m tryin, fuck, fuck it feels goodAHshit, ‘Drid.”

“I've been wanting to, goodness, to do this for some time. You, you’ve no idea how badly I wanted to drag you into some dark corner and make you scream, leave teethmarks on your throat like, fuck, like some vampire so everyone would know you were mine.” He drives his hips and his point home by biting Duck on the neck, “I’ve wanted to sink myself into you in every way, drink up every inch of you, and do you know why?”

Duck shakes his head, mouth hanging open to allow the pants and moans Indrid is punching out of him to spill into the sink. 

“I, I thought that if I ever got the chance, I needed to devour as much of you as I could so I’d have some to last when you left me.”

Duck starts, shocked, “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Indrid’s glasses are slipping, so when he looks up from sucking a red mark into Duck’s upper back, his brown eyes glint in the light. 

“Now you know how I feel whenever you act as if I’m going to cast you aside for the next pretty face.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, pet. Oh.” 

“OHohohfuck, ‘Drid, ‘Drid, _‘Drid_ -” his next words die out into a groan as the singer latches on to a spot of skin near his pulse point, hips slamming into so hard his balance starts to give. Indrid’s hands are on his hips, and as he speeds up Duck can hear him growling “mine” over and over again against the new bruise.

His head is yanked to the side just in time for Indrid to kiss him before he cums, his high moan dying out between Duck’s lips as his hips jerk. 

When Indrid breaks the kiss, he looks down to where Duck’s hands are still obediently gripping the sink. 

“Good boy.” Indrid grunts softly as he pulls out, tossing the condom into the trash and zipping up his pants. Duck stays put until slender fingers wrap around his waist and carefully turn him around.

“How are you feeling?” Indrid brushes Duck’s hair from his forehead. 

“I, uh, feel pretty damn laid claim to.”

A jack-o-lantern smile, “Wonderful.”

“It’s just, uh, I-” he feels ridiculous--fucked within an inch of his life, pants still tangled around his knees, marks blooming all along his neck and back--asking for more. 

Indrid brushes their noses together, “would you like me to continue my plan? To make you go mad with pleasure that everything else is white noise?”

“Uh huh.” 

“Take off your clothes, wait for me on the bed with your hands behind your back.”

As Duck disrobes and settles on the Dracula-themed bedding, Indrid gathers several items from his bag, keeping them behind his back. The bed dips behind Duck, and faux-fur cups his wrists. He recalls spotting cuffs in the bag when Indrid grabbed his green collar from it a few days ago. 

“On your side.”

Duck flops sides, hears the tell-tale pop of the lube and wiggles in anticipation. Indrid lays down behind him, one arm draped over his side. Then he gasps, grabbing Indrid’s hand to his chest as something silicone teases his ass. 

“There are so many to choose from, but your ass may be one of my favorite parts of you. I think it deserves some attention.” He presses the small plug in and Duck whines, the intrusion just enough to hold his attention and distract him from the fact Indrid is already grabbing something else. 

“Then again, I can’t forget about this part either” he slips a small bullet vibe in and Duck groans, knowing it’s not the right shape for him to get off without help, “it’s so…accommodating.”

“A-accommodate you any day, sugar, ah jesus fuck.” He bucks his hips into the air, the vibrations causing him to tighten around both toys and moan into the black pillows. 

“I know you will, pet. But not just yet. I need to get ready for bed first.” Indrid hops off the bed, bends down to pet Duck’s hair, “be a good boy and be patient.”

And so Duck waits, watches Indrid coming and going, removing the last traces of his make-up from the video, changing into his robe, checking his phone for last minute messages from Stern. All the while he sings softly, more to himself than to Duck, but given that they’re all songs he knows turn Duck on, it’s clear who he’s singing for. Whenever Duck whines or moans, or pushes his hips uselessly into nothing, the singer laughs. 

“My sweet Duck, so eager. Just a little longer, pet, and then I promise you’ll get to cum.”

Duck’s whole body pings with excitement when Indrid rolls him onto his knees, his cheek pressed to the bed and ass in the air. Indrid smooths his fingers along Duck’s ass. Then his teeth do the same, before daintily biting down and making Duck keen as they suck a new mark into the skin. 

“Mine.” Indrid purrs. 

“Uhuh, all yours, fuck, sugar please, please fuck me I’m fuckin dyin here.”

“Can’t have that can we?” Duck groans Indrid removes the vibrator. There’s a slick sound of liquid on skin, and he tips his head awkwardly, trying to see Indrid stroking himself. 

“I’d say this was my, ohhh, my favorite view in the whole wide world, but that would be an injustice to the way you look when you smile. Or when I’m fucking you.”

“‘Drid, please.”

“Don’t get too demanding, pet, our I’ll blindfold you so you won’t get to see me while I take you to pieces.”

Duck lets out a plaintive, broken noise and Indrid guides him up to sit on his knees. Points to his lap and Duck goes through a series of scoots and wobbles, Indrid steadying him when need be, to straddle him. All he wants is to get his dick inside him, and Indrid, sensing this, grins and pushes his hips down, sinking him onto it and making them both moan. 

“Theerrre we are. Here is what I’m going to do, my sweet. I don’t intend to move a single muscle other than the ones in my hand. But since you’ve had a long day, it doesn’t seem fair to put much more of strain on your thighs. So” he reaches behind himself, revealing the vibrating wand and clicking it on, “I am going to use this on you until you cum. I suspect you wriggling and tightening around me like the worlds most charming fleshlight will be enough to get me off as well.”

With that, he presses the wand directly against Duck’s dick, gasping out encouragement as Duck grinds his hips frantically, head thrown back and Indrid’s free arm around him. He cums hard, wrists straining against the cuffs. Indrid pulls the toy back, kissing his throat with another “good boy.”

Then he presses the wand to him again.

“FuckSHIT, ahfuck, ‘Drid, have a little mercy on a fella.” Tears, the best kind, well up as he bats his eyes pleadingly at his boyfriend. 

“Do I look like I’ve cum yet?” Indrid leers. 

“N-no.”

“Then we’re not done.”

“FUCKme, nnnnshit, oh _fuck_!” He nearly loses his balance but is yanked forward by the collar, Indrid using it to force his gaze upwards. 

“When you’re wearing this” a harsh tug on the leather, “that means you are mine to do whatever I want with. And if I want to cum from you writhing on my cock like the horny, desperate, perfect boy you are, then I will force a dozen orgasms out of you if need be.”

“Please” Duck chokes out.

“Specif--AHyes--ity, pet. We’ve been over this.”

“Please do that, fuck, ‘Drid, I wanna be yours, wanna be so good, fuck, fuck.”

“You are. You’re beyond good, Duck. You’re wonderful.”

Duck whimpers, the most resilient piece of his self-doubt still stuck in his brain.

Indrid pulls the collar down, forcing Duck to bow forward and see where there bodies meet.

“Do you, oh god, see this? Do you know why you, you get this and no one else does?”

Duck shakes his head.

“Be-because you, you make me laugh when no one else can, you’re kind and practical and built just right. Because you’re perfect for me. You’re the man for me, Duck Newton, and nobody else is.”

It’s a full-on sob this time as his head hits Indrid’s shoulder. He could blame it on the second orgasm, but that would be a lie. Indrid keeps the wand right where it is, moans turning ragged as Duck twists and bucks, body trying to escape the over-stimulation even though his brain is quite happy to take it. 

“God I thought you felt, felt good after one orgasm, this, this is divine, god you’re so wet, so willing and ruined and all mine, all mine, mine.” The fingers in the O-ring tighten as Indrid cums, wordlessly, jerking up a handful of times, the added stimulation making Duck whimper from limp lips. 

The toy shuts off as Indrid pulls out, then the plug is removed and the cuffs undone. Duck collapses in Indrid’s arms, as dimly aware of the singer rocking them back and forth as he coats Duck’s face and body in kisses. He lays them down, takes Ducks left wrist and kisses it in a line. 

“My sweet, my Duck, that, that was amazing. You’re amazing. How do you feel?”

“Good” Duck mumbles, brain still thoroughly soaked in afterglow, “but need, uh, need..”

“Whatever it is, you shall have it. Even if I have to send Kirby on a late-night errand to get it.”

“Jus’ need some water.” Duck smiles, goofy and loopy. 

“Oh! Oh of course, one moment.” Indrid eases out of the embrace, reappears a few moments later with two glasses of water. Duck sips his, coming back to earth after each drink. 

“Are you hungry? Oh, here” Indrid darts away again, returns with Duck’s sleep clothes, “it gets chilly in the mountains, even in the summer.”

“Sugar, I grew up in the mountains. Kinda.”

“Ah, right. I, ah, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to fuss I just” his brown eyes look a little wet in the low light, “I don’t want you thinking I will only look after you or show you I want you during sex.”

“I don’t, darlin. I promise.” Duck kisses his cheek, sets his empty glass aside and starts dressing. As he pulls his shirt on, he decides to seize the moment of feeling safe and loved.

“I, uh, I ran into an ex yesterday. Alex.”

“Ah yes, I recall you mentioning him. I take it the meeting was not a pleasant one.”

“No. I mean, we didn’t get in a fistfight or nothin. But he still knows how to get in my head. He did a real good job of it, and that’s, uh, that’s part of why I been kinda weird.”

Indrid wraps his arms around him, fingers linking on his belly and chin on his shoulder, “My poor Duck. I’m so sorry.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry too. For not just tellin you how I was feelin’.”

“While I would appreciate you being more forthcoming in the future, I don’t blame you. Goodness knows I understand having things in your past that make it...difficult to be vulnerable.”

Duck turns his head, kissing Indrid softly. The singer hums happily, cuddling closer. 

“Take me to bed, my love?” Indrid smiles sleepily. 

“Sure thing, sugar.”  
\-----------------------------------------  
“This is absurd! Amnesty’s channel is fully verified and monetized, where on earth do they get off doing this without warning!”

It’s their last day in L.A and Stern is two calls deep trying to get a hold of the right person at Youtube. Apparently, One Million Moms has gotten word of “Let Me In” and launched a campaign to get the video banned from Youtube and demand radio stations refuse to play a song that “encourages immoral tendencies in young people.” They appear to have succeeded on their campaign against the video. 

Oddly, Indrid seems less upset by this turn of events then the rest of his staff or band. When Duck mentions this, the singer shrugs. 

“This has been happening since The Cryptids first made it big. A gay lead singer being unapologetic about his desire for men and ‘gender bending’ in his videos from time to time tends to get a certain sector of people up in arms every. Single. Time. They always have names like Focus on the Family or Protect Our Children and they’re all hell-bent on making the world as bland and sad as they are. It has been awhile though.” He runs a hand through his hair, “ah well, I trust Ned and Joseph. Besides, I have bigger things to focus on.”

“You got some new song ideas?”

“Yes, but I was referring to the next stop on our tour. In just a few days, I’ll be able to tell the whole world that Duck Newton is my boyfriend. Ah, right on time” the van pulls out and Indrid grins, “San Francisco, here we come!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious as to what early videos by "The Cryptids" were like, check out the video by The Cramps that shares a title with this chapter (cw: fake blood, implied sex).


	9. Ultra Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern gets a surprise. Indrid makes an announcement. Duck makes a discovery.

San Francisco is foggy, even in the heart of the summer, and Duck zips up his jacket as they enter the hotel. Calling a place like this “The Lodge” seems counter-intuitive; yes, it’s done up in rich woods and warm light on the inside and somehow smells vaguely of pine, but Duck’s certain the rooms here are eye-poppingly pricey. 

The name is also familiar, but he can’t place why. 

Indrid walks alongside him, as close as they can be without actually holding hands. The first show isn’t until tomorrow, and Duck is looking forward to Indrid ordering room service and cuddling up against him to fight off the chill for the remainder of the day. 

Duck stays close as Indrid retrieves the key, and then bumps into him as he comes to a sudden stop. 

“I was wondering if you’d show up.”

“And miss seeing you perform? Not a chance.” Barclay, _the_ Barclay, opens his arms and Indrid darts into them while Duck experiences a wave of star-shock. The short beard and dark coppery hair are the same but the man looks very different than his stage persona; he’s in a nice flannel and jeans, no leather or studs in sight. 

“Barclay, we’re playing Seattle in a week. Which, if I recall Joseph’s words correctly, is where you’ve been overseeing the new place.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t need to check up on the Lodge Kitchen too. Or The Arch, especially when a certain someone is planning a, uh, photo op there.” He smiles at Indrid knowingly, and the singer hurriedly looks around, locates Duck, and drags him over. 

“This is Duck. Duck, this is Barclay, though I suspect you already knew that.”

“Guhhuh. It’s, uh, it’s a real honor to get to meet you.” He holds out his hand and, miraculously, Barclay shakes it with a smile. 

“Likewise. Uh, you two might wanna get out of the way.”

“Wh-”

“Barclaaaaay!” Aubrey collides with the chef, hugging him, a split second before Dani does the same.

“Hey you two, missed you a whole hell of a lot."

Indrid and Duck find themselves at the edge of the crowd, Barclay getting hugs and greetings from everyone, though only Mama attempts to bear hug him. This offers them a clear view of Stern, who’s only just arrived in the lobby due to taking a call outside, and is busy checking off things on his phone. The others notice as well, silently waving each other out of the way so he has an unobstructed path to Barclay, who simply rests his hands in his pockets and waits. 

“Is there a reason everyone is milling around in the lobby?” Stern taps his phone, still not looking up, “Wait, has there been an issue with the rooms, I could have sworn…” He stops, realizing someone is in his path and making no attempt to move. Looks up slowly, as if savoring the revelation of who, exactly, is in front of him, though his face stays oddly neutral. 

“Hey, babe.” Barclay rumbles. Duck would swear he’s blushing. 

Placidly, Stern tucks his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he leaps, literally fucking leaps, to pull Barclay into a kiss. There’s a muffled laugh from the taller man as he wraps him in his arms, Stern already digging his fingers into his hair. 

“Well, they’ll be lost to the world for the next several hours, so I think it’s time for us to head upstairs.” Indrid heads off towards the elevators, overnight bag slung over one shoulder, and Duck follows. As they’re waiting for the elevator to reach the ground floor, he glances back to find Stern and Barclay right where they left them. 

“Damn, they’re still at it.”

“Yes. Given that this was a surprise, I’d be shocked if Joseph even wants to stop to breathe.”

_Ding_

The doors part and they board. As soon as they shut, Indrid cups Duck’s cheek and kisses him, murmuring against his lips, “I cannot wait until we can do the same in public.”  
\--------------------------------------------  
Indrid slips on the complementary bathrobe, tucking his keycard into the pocket and slipping on his glasses. Duck is sound asleep, but Indrid bends down to kiss his head all the same, leaving a note on the nightstand in case Duck wakes up. 

A perk of staying on the top floor in an exclusive hotel is that he has access to a staircase to take him to a small rooftop garden, at the center of which is a hot tub. As he walks, he alternates between going over the set list for tomorrow and thinking about Duck. While the thought of pinning him to the large bed was appealing, Indrid opted to give into his deeper desire and ask Duck to cuddle under the covers with him and watch silly T.V shows and drink fancy, warm cocktails from the kitchen. It felt so _normal_ , and as Duck gradually fell asleep with Indrid’s head on his chest the singer daydreamed about what it might be like to have many, many more normal days with him. 

Luckily, as he approaches the hot tub he sees it’s occupied by exactly the person he can talk to about all this. 

“Thought you might turn up for a dip.” Barclay smiles at him, lifting his plastic bottle of water. 

“It’s hard to resist. I’m amazed Joseph released you.”

“Last I checked he was out cold. Five rounds will do that. I mean, shit, my legs barely got me up here and my jaw is killing me.” He arches an eyebrow, “what’d you and Duck get up to?”

“We...cuddled.”

Barclay chuckles, “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

“What gave it away?” Indrid is genuinely curious. 

“The way you looked just then. We’ve known each other over a decade; you looked like you couldn’t believe he’d do something so innocent with you. Like you’re getting away with something. You looked that way when we got signed to Amnesty, and when those emancipation papers came through when you were seventeen. And I’ve never seen you look that way about a guy.”

“I...it’s strange. I know it’s only been a few months, but I feel so at home with him. I don’t even feel at home in my literal home.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna marry that dude.”

“I am not.” Indrid sinks down in embarrassment, unwilling to admit that he’s already envisioned what a proposal might look like. 

“I’m just saying. It’s not like you haven’t had boyfriends or fanboys or both before, but the way you talk about him is different.”

“He’s just so, so, _good_. He’s talented and funny and kind and I, I think he may like me even more than my stage self and that almost never happens. What do I do?”

“I mean, what have you been doing?” Barclay looks amused, though whether by the question or Indrid sounding like a fourteen year old before his first date, the singer can’t say. 

“Kissing? Talking about music and plants? Having lots of sex?”

Barclay chuckles, “Ooh, does he pretend to be a fan that got into your bus and will do anything for you?”

“....No.” Indrid is overcome by images of that scenario, complete with the collar. He needs a moment.

“I’m just saying, in my experience that roleplay goes really well. Even if your husband is kinda bad at pretending.” Barclay scoots closer, waves splashing up the edge of the tub, “seriously though, it seems like Duck is as into you as you are him. And tomorrow, you won’t even have to hide it anymore.”

Indrid bites his lip, “what if he discovers that being the boyfriend of a celebrity is fraught? Or he gets sick of being on the road constantly, or of the days where I’m so focused on work I’m lost to the world?”

“Has he seriously never seen you on your writing jags?”

“No, actually. He’s seen that twice.”

“Then I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he knows what he's getting into. Or as much as anyone can know that without being able to see the future.”

“I wish I could.”

“I know bud. Now c’mon, tell me what you want for brunch on Sunday.”

“Are you really going to cook?”

“Yes. My chef de cuisine’s been warned so it’s not out of the blue. And here” the chef reaches into a nearby ice bucket and pulls out another bottle of water, “hydrate. I’ve pulled your unconscious ass out of a hot tub enough times."

“That was only once!”

“Like I said, enough times.”

Indrid twists off the cap, then smirks and holds the bottle up, “to being hopelessly in love?”

Barclay clacks his bottle against it, “I’ll drink to that.”  
\-----------------------------------------------  
Duck checks himself out in the hotel mirror, glances back at Aubrey and Dani, who each offer a thumbs up. 

“Green goes with your eyes.” Aubrey waves him over, “lemme fix your jacket collar, it’s kinda crooked.”

He let’s them fuss over him until Indrid texts him that the car is there and then he’s heading down to the lobby. When he gets into the car, his heart melts all over again. 

Indrid is in all black, save for the red shirt peeking out from his black sweater and his usual glasses, looking every inch the rockstar. But as soon as he sees Duck, he beams and blushes like this is the best day of his life. 

He holds Duck’s hand all the way to The Arch, Sunday traffic beeping about them and fog weaving between the skyscrapers. This time, when they step out onto the sidewalk, he keeps holding it. 

The Arch isn’t stuffy in the way he feared, and he sees Barclay’s touches all over it; warm wood, natural light, even a fireplace for people to sit and sip drinks by. 

The hostess seats them by one of the large windows by the street, and before they even have their drinks (virgin mimosa for Indrid and black coffee for Duck), several people have stopped or doubled back upon noticing Indrid through the glass. One busboy stops and asks for a photo, which Indrid happily grants (“here, sweetheart, can you take it?”).

“Kinda surprised he came over, don’t fancy places usually tell staff not to talk to famous diners?”

Indrid shrugs, “I imagine Barclay told them it was alright in my case. I don’t mind photos or autographs for fans in this sort of environment. I’ve even learned to tolerate that” he inclines his head towards a nearby table, where someone who looks like he owns a tech start-up has his phone out, clearly photographing them. 

By the time their dishes arrive, there’s a consistent crows on the sidewalk, snapping pictures and, as a result, drawing even more onlookers who want to see what all the fuss is about. Self-consciousness is creeping up his spine, but then Indrid licks whipped cream off his fork and moans, causing him to forget everything else. 

“Mmmm, Barclay never disappoints. What did he make you?”

“The worlds fanciest breakfast sandwich.”

“Oh good, he remembered. I told him that was your go-to.”

“Thanks sugar.” Duck reaches across the table hesitantly, only for Indrid to grab his hand without pause. 

“You’re welcome, pet. What good is fortune and fame without someone to spend it on?” He glances at him over his glasses and smiles, tongue flicking over a canine. Duck suddenly understands the phrase “blushing like a virgin, “ cheeks heating up as he gazes down into his coffee. 

Something flashes through the window, bigger than the flash from a phone. 

“Right on time.” Indrid murmurs, and when his fingers squeeze Duck’s palm he understands he’s not the only one who’s a bit nervous right now. 

They eat under the gaze of an increasingly large crowd, but the longer it goes on the less Duck minds. Indrid talks like he always does, gesticulating as he describes his new idea for the “Flytrap Heart” video, asking Duck what plants he thinks might be able to survive in the van, and if he’s open to looking over some lyrics for him. 

He’s asked that last part more and more frequently this last week, as if he genuinely trusts Duck’s creative ear. He even asked if Duck would be alright if he recorded the song of his he played at the bar. When Duck said he needed to think about it, the singer simply nodded and has not touched the subject since. 

(He wants to tell him, can see him understanding, but he still burns with shame and anger when he thinks about it for too long).

Indrid pays the tab, takes Duck’s hand and leads him back into the kitchen, apparently having received a text from Barclay saying the chefs would “flip their shit” for a photo. 

When they finally reach the front doors, Indrid offers his arm and Duck takes it, bracing himself. 

There are honest to god paparazzi waiting when they step outside, and Duck draws Indrid closer on instinct, wanting to shield him. Questions are coming from all angles, yet the singer stays silent, scanning the crowd until he spots a younger woman in a striped shirt and angles himself towards her phone as she holds it out. 

“Hello miss Nguyen, Buzzfeed treating you well?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” She seems surprised that Indrid remembers her name, “uh, Mr. Cold, can we assume this means you're dating once again?”

“Yes” Indrid pats Duck’s bicep proudly, “this is Duck Newton, it’s a nickname, my boyfriend.”

More clamoring behind them, but Indrid simply nods to indicate to Ms. Nguyen should keep going.

“How did you meet Mr.Newton.”

“On tour.”

“Um, Mr. Newton, how does it feel to be dating such a prominent figure in the music industry?”

“Like I won the fuckin lottery.” Duck kisses Indrid’s cheek, hears him make an “eee’ of delight. 

“Mr. Cold! If this has been going on for some time, why only come public now?” Someone behind Indrid shouts and the singer turns.

“Now was just one of the first chances we got to be out and about together, the tour is very demanding on our time.” Indrid smiles blithely, “Besides, what’s there to make a fuss about? I’ve been out for years, and I found a boyfriend, something people do all the time. I didn’t see any reason to trumpet it; my being in love is hardly front page news, even if Duck does make me so happy I want to scream it from the rooftops. Ah, excuse me, our ride is here. Please direct all further inquiries to my publicist or, if you feel like having your ear chewed off, my manager.” Indrid blows a kiss as Duck waves, then they dive into the safety of the cab and Indrid immediately hunches forward, breathing deep. 

“Goodness, even when I know it’s coming, that sort of throng gets overstimulating very quickly. Give me a packed auditorium any day.”

“How can I help, darlin?”

Indrid straightens, lists so his head finds Duck’s shoulder. He pulls his fidget cube from his pocket and murmurs, “stroking my hair would be very nice.”

And so Duck does, listens to Indrid hum on and off as they get back to the hotel. Marvels at the fact it hadn’t been as hard as he’d thought it would; it was annoying to have so many people up in their faces, acting as if Indrid owed them every detail. But Indrid was there, grounding him and reminding him exactly why he was doing this. As long as he has Indrid on his arm, he thinks he can handle the weird second-hand fame of being his boyfriend. 

Boyfriend. 

God, Indrid was grinning when he said it into that microphone, like it was a jackpot lottery number and he had the ticket. 

Indrid spends much of the remainder of the day in meetings with Stern and Ned, not about his love life but about the tour and the ongoing kerfuffle over “Let me in.” Duck splashes around in the heated pool with Aubrey and Dani, Jake doing increasingly ridiculous dives off the diving board. Reads, fucks around with lyrics having to do with germinating under a smile the way a seed does under light, and falls asleep half changed out of his clothes. 

He wakes up before Indrid, decides against showering since he’ll have to load the buses in a few hours. The singer is snoring softly, and as Duck sits up and picks up his phone he shifts with a mutter, hand flopping across Duck’s thigh. 

Unsurprisingly, he has a fuck-ton of messages and notifications, but he zeros in one from Juno. 

_Juno: You seen Indrid’s Instagram? Damn buddy, didn’t know he was THAT into you._

He’s seen it enough times to know Indrid doesn’t post much, just the occasional sketch or backstage shot or, rarely, a selfie. When he opens it, he understands Juno’s comment. 

The latest post contains two dozen photos, some of the two of them together and some of Duck on his own. 

_IndridCold: Since the cat is out of the metaphorical bag, I will share these. Perhaps it is silly to have taken so many photos of Duck, like some teenager furiously documenting his crush. But I anticipate many obnoxious questions about why I am dating him. Which means my documentation serves a purpose beyond giving me something to So here he is, through my eyes. If you cannot see what I do, well, that is your loss._

Duck sets the phone aside, burrows back beneath the covers, and wraps his arms around Indrid.

“Hmwah? Oh, hello my sweet. What brings you here?”

“Nothin” Duck mumbles into his neck, smiling harder than he has in a long time, “I’m just so goddamn happy. And I love you so fuckin much.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------  
“They were on some FOX podcast this time” Stern rubs his temples as he sits across from Duck and Indrid on the bus, Ned flipping between tabs on his tablet as they talk, “they even upped the ante by playng an example of the kind of song stations ‘should’ be playing. I’d make a crack about ‘Kumbaya’ but that’s too multicultural for their type.”

“Dare I ask how it sounded?” Indrid props his feet in Duck’s lap. 

“Allow me, my dear boy.” Ned taps play on a video and uptempo, vaguely evangelical pop fills the air. 

“Agh! Bloody hell Chicane, are you trying to kill me?” Boyd yells from the front. 

“No, I am merely appeasing our golden goose.” Ned winks at Indrid, who laughs. But Duck isn’t laughing, and as soon as Indrid notices he reaches out and touches his shoulder. 

“Duck?”

“I...fuck, _that’s_ why it sounds familiar. That asshole. Those are my fuckin’ lyrics.”


	10. Let's Get Fucked Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern plans. Indrid asks a question. Duck puts on eyeliner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Indrid has fake blood on his face during the sex scene in this chapter, and refers to it once as just "blood." There is no actual blood involved at any point, but I figure I'd mention it just to be safe.

“You’re certain?” Stern is staring at him as Ned hurriedly pulls up the lyrics, turning his screen so Duck can see them. He scans them, knot of impotent anger in his throat. 

“Yep. Wait, fuck” he taps a link, finds three more songs he recognizes, “that fucker, these are all mine too! All he did was change his name or a pet name to “jesus” or “god” or some shit! Makin’ it big in the industry my ass!”

“Who is this?” Stern is flipping through his phone. 

“My ex, Alex.” Duck spits out, too pissed to be cagey about it, “I, I used to write him love songs, or even just songs where he was kinda my inspiration, give ‘em to him on paper or, uh, or even record them on my shitty guitar in my room. He kept tellin me they were good, that we should try makin it big. Then he changed his mind, said he could make it on his own. And he had the fuckin nerve to call me ‘dead weight.’”

“He called you _what_?” Indrid’s voice takes on an edge.

“It don’t matter. None of it matters. Fuck, all this time I thought my songs sucked, but he’s out here fuckin sellin ‘em to folks who think people like me are a fuckin threat to fuckin fabric of society. I mean fuck, he’s gay too! Couldn’t he have just, just sold ‘em to some girl group and spared me the fuckin humiliation?” He drops his head into his hands, breathing heavily, “fuck.”

Indrid rests a hand on his thigh, reassuring. 

“Alex Masters?” Stern frowns.

“Yeah, that’s him.” He adds, under his breath, “he had a field day with that name when he found out I liked collars and shit.”

“I am going to murder him.”

“Indrid, as much as I understand the sentiment, even I could not clean up such a P.R mess.”

“Then what _can_ I do?” Indrid snaps with such frustration that Duck fears he was actually contemplating murder as an option. 

“Leave that to me.” Stern stands, “I’ll call Janelle, she knows the law around stuff like this. I can’t make any promises though; if there’s no proof Duck wrote them first, or if the only proof is something in Alex’s possession, we might be out of luck. Can you think of any originals, any files you might still have?”

Duck shakes his head.

“Well, keep thinking. With any luck, Janelle and I may be having a very serious chat with Reconciliation Records about a certain songwriter.”

The buses pull into a Loves to refuel and Stern departs back to his spot on Aubrey’s van, phone to his ear. Ned joins Boyd up front, and Kirby pokes his head in to ask if Indrid needs him to grab anything from the store. 

Duck doesn’t stick around to hear Indrid’s reply. He slips into the bedroom and flops face-first onto the bed. Stays there, sulking, as the van pulls out. It shouldn’t hurt this much; hell, he was the one who ended things. Alex just took their entire friend group, a chunk of Duck’s self-esteem and, apparently, all of Duck’s songs. He’d been angry then, now it’s just a strange bitterness mixed with exhaustion, like no matter what he does that one relationship will have its claws in him forever. 

His phone dings, and along with a text from Aubrey he sees and Instagram notification. He clicks on it. This proves to be a mistake. 

The most recent photo on his account is one where he was attempting to kiss Indrid on the cheek, only to be photobombed by Dr. Harris Bonkers. He’s gotten new followers ever since people figured out this was the account for Indrid Colds’ boyfriend, and the comments on this one have mostly been variations on “bunny!” or “Jealous!”

All except this one. 

_MastersVoice: Knew this was the only reason you could hang on in this biz._

He’s about to chuck his phone out the window when a comment appears beneath that one. 

_Ranger_J: Alex we know that’s you. Bitter ex is a bad look, dipshit._

Duck chuckles, blocks MastersVoice, and then slides his phone as far away as possible and returns to laying face down in bed. Soon, the door clicks open and shuts softly, and the bed dips near his feet. 

“Is it alright if I’m in here?”

“‘Drid, it’s your room.” He mumbles into the pillow. 

“It’s _our_ room. And you can tell me to leave if you need to be alone.”

Duck shakes his head, and plastic crinkles from the direction of the closet. 

“I had Kirby grab some of your favorites in case you’re hungry.”

He makes a sound that he hopes comes across as thanks. Indrid sits down on the bed, and Duck knows without looking that he’s sitting cross-legged and staring off into the distance. 

“This may seem like the worst time to mention this, but do you want to be my co-writer on the next album?”

“Fuckin what?” Duck rolls over to face him, “‘Drid, I appreciate what you’re tryin’ to do, but now is not the time to fuckin patronize me.”

“I am doing no such thing.” Indrid crosses his arms, staring him down, “Why on earth do you think I tested that song of yours where I did? That kind of crowd is honest, and I wanted proof that my thoughts on it were not based solely on my affection for you. And they aren’t. You’re a talented songwriter, Duck. A bit rough, and a bit different from myself, but I trust your ear and I like your style. And given everything we learned today, goodness knows you deserve credit for your capabilities, and that’s something I can give you.”

“Stuff Alex stole wasn’t even that good. Don’t know why I’m so pissed about it, but I am.” 

“It was amateurish, at least from the lyrics I looked up.”

Duck starts to glare, then understands; Indrid is telling the truth because Duck specifically asked not to be patronized. 

“But there is nothing wrong with that. And, well, of course you’re pissed; art, even if it’s haphazard or cliched or not ones best, is a personal thing. You made those songs for a reason, to say something specific and true. And the person you made them for chose to sell them to those who would distort them. That is an immense betrayal.”

“One you’d never do?”

Duck wants to slap himself, watches hurt flicker across Indrid’s face. Then the singer points to spot in front of him, lips in a line, and Duck slowly sits up, crosses his legs so they’re face to face. 

Indrid cups his face, holds it so he can’t look away from him, “I will not. For starters now fewer than ten people, my manager and ex-bassist being the first in line, would skin me if I tried such a thing. I’m not the only person in this crew who loves you, Duck; Aubrey, Ned, Joseph, Leo, really everyone here cares about you. But more than that, I am not a flailing, talentless, egocentric creature like he is. I have made a career and a fortune from my music, music which I was and remain the primary writer of. I do not need your lyrics to succeed. I _want_ them because they are good, and you are good, and you and my music are my twin loves and combining them would make me happy. I think it might make you happy, too.”

“That’s really why you’re offerin’?” Duck whispers, feeling like the tears at the corners of his eyes will burn him open if they fall.

Indrid just nods. 

Duck takes a deep breath, braces his hands on Indrid’s knees, “yeah. Okay. I’d, I’d like that a whole hell of a lot.”

The singer leans in and kisses him once, tenderly, then again on each corner of his mouth. 

“That is something for later, then. What do you need right now?”

“Just uh, to be held.” 

Indrid arranges the pillows into a nest and opens his arms. Duck crawls into them, hands clinging to Indrid’s shirt. Without prompting the singer begins kissing his head and telling him how good he is, how much he loves him, and somewhere in the midst of it he falls asleep. Wakes up when they hit the Portland venue, and loses himself in the rhythm of his usual work. 

Things calm down as they wind their way up the rest of the Pacific Northwest. The release of, and subsequent hand wringing over, “Let me in” means the venues for the second leg of the tour are selling out, much to Ned’s delight and Sterns relief.

Barclay meets up with them in Seattle, sends the crowd into an uproar when he appears onstage during the second night. Duck finishes setting up an effect only to look over and see Stern, usually watching the shows with a critical eye, staring with what Duck can only describe as stars in his eyes as his husband performs. Suddenly he feels less weird about banging his head on a riser when Indrid moaned during “Flytrap Heart” last night.

The next day, instead of turning east for their next show in Boise, they stay in Washington, Indrid forbidding Duck from looking out the windows until they arrive at their destination (primarily by putting on his green collar and keeping his head in his lap while he teases him and jacks him off with agonizing slowness).

“Now mind this step, one more, and we’re safe.” Indrid uncovers his eyes with a “ta da” revealing a sign that reads “Olympic National Park.”

“Holy shit! Wait, fuck, is this gonna throw off the schedule?”

“No” Stern appears, dressed in actual outdoor wear, “we had a day set aside for rest anyway, and it makes as much sense to have it here as anywhere else.”

Duck spends the day hiking, Indrid asking him all sorts of questions that he does his best to answer given that this isn’t the ecosystem he knows best. He even takes pictures, often of Indrid marveling over something, though he also snags a shot of a Red-Shouldered Hawk on a low-hanging branch. 

They meet the others back at the visitor center, where Duck spots Stern buying a tiny, stuffed Bigfoot and Jake buying an immense, stuffed harbor seal. Dani and Aubrey are taking selfies with an overjoyed ranger, Mama is teasing Thacker for buying more GORP while Leo doubles over in laughter, and Indrid wordlessly grabs the shirt he sees Duck eyeing and purchases it along with a small, plush duck that quacks when you squeeze it. 

To Duck’s surprise, the entire crew had a good day (even Ned and Boyd, who snuck away to a nearby roadhouse for a drink), and Thacker pats him on the back and declares, “glad to have another tree hugger on the team.”

Duck thanks Indrid one more time before they fall asleep, huddled beneath the blankets against the coastal chill. Indrid simply purrs, “I think I shall become the outdoorsy type, the company is excellent.”

He falls asleep dreaming of a bed under a rainforest canopy, of a bright red moth alighting on his hand before morphing into Indrid. 

That and, of course, the incredibly absurd and ridiculously hot roleplay Indrid suggested to him during their walk. He’s going to be dreaming, and daydreaming, about that for days.   
\---------------------------------  
Indrid stands outside the door to his room on the bus, settling into the correct headspace for what’s about to happen. They’ve planned this out for the last two days, wanting it to fall on a day when there wasn’t a show. Hence waiting until they’re between shows in Austin, where Indrid is playing Thursday and Saturday.

Last night he texted Barclay. 

_Me: What was the theme for our third tour, the one about eight years ago? Bloodlust?_

_Barclay: Yep. You burned through so many fucking blood capsules remember?_

Which is why he still tastes bitter syrup with a hint of artificial strawberry, his chin and lips sticky with fake blood, the lipstick beneath it black. He’s in a white tank-top, remembering he did that to show off the blood during the show, black pants and black boots with a hint of heel. The outfit, combined with the sweat from the summer desert heat, makes it easier to pretend he’s just come off stage. 

He opens the door, pretending to not notice the other person in the room until he turns on the light. 

“Well, well, it seems a little cryptozoologist has been sneaking around looking for the Mothman.” 

Duck yelps, spinning around and Indrid gets his first good look at him. Since he hasn't had it cut recently, Duck’s hair is close to the length it was in the photo, and he’s clearly mussed it with product. His Cryptids t-shirt is on the tighter side, showing off his muscles, the black jeans making Indrid want to sink his teeth into his thighs until he cries. He even found beat up VANS in a thrift store yesterday, and something about that plus the messily applied black eyeliner makes him look much younger, much closer to the nineteen they decided to pretend he was (Indrid has opted to pretend he's twenty-one).

“I, uh, fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t mean no-”

Indrid silences him simply by lifting his hand, “I thought southern boys had good manners.”

“I, I do, I swear it’s just, uh, fuck, please don’t call security or nothin on me, I promise I’ll go.” He’s doing a remarkably good job of acting scared, considering he was the one who was most excited for today.

“There’s no need for that, I’m not going to have you thrown out or get you into trouble. But I do want to know why you dared to break in in the first place.” He’s had this exact conversation before, especially in the days before Boyd, “on a dare perhaps, or looking for something to sell? Autograph hunting?”

“N-no. Or, uh, I mean, guess I wouldn’t turn down an autograph, it’s just” his voice grows shyer, harder to hear and he looks at his feet, “I really wanted to meet you.”

Indrid softens a little, “well, you’ve met me. What now?” He wanders forward, keeping Duck cornered as the younger man continues talking. 

“I, uh, I know it sounds corny but I’m such a huge fuckin fan. Your, your stuff was fuckin life-savin for me, helped me accept how I am. I come from this tiny town in the middle of fuckin nowhere and hearin you, seein you, it let me know I could be somethin different, that I didn’t just have to be who everyone thought I was.”

Indrid inhales sharply; this isn’t part of the game, not really, even if it is what Duck might have said to him all those years ago. Duck is telling the truth. 

“Your music changed my life. I, I just wanted to say thank you.” Duck looks up, starts back slightly when he discovers how close Indrid has come. 

Indrid tips his glasses down, giving Duck a peek at his eyes, “What’s your name, pet.”

A hitch of breath at the pet name, “Duck. It’s a, uh, a nickname.”

“Charming.” He catches sight of the black collar and the words on it, reaches out a finger to toy with the O-ring, Duck going still as he does, “this is rather...interesting accessory.”

“It's for the show.”

Indrid tilts Dick’s chin up, runs his fingertips over the letters of his name and purrs, “Really? Why?”

A glint enters Duck’s eye, even as his breathing mimics that of a trapped animal, “Be-because I wanted everyone to know who I was here for. Who I, uh, belong to.”

Indrid has wondered, ever since Duck first admitted to his crush on him, what he would have done in this exact scenario. If Duck, barely free of Kepler, had come to him after a show, green eyes wide and worshipful, eager for a chance to show just how big a fan he was. Would Indrid have been struck with that urge to spoil him, fuss over him? Kiss him right away?

No. 

He wants to fucking _ruin_ him. And tonight what Indrid Cold wants, Indrid Cold gets.

“Tell me, Duck” he keeps his fingers on the collar, “if you could anything in the world right now, what would it be?”

Another flash of confidence, “Really like to suck your dick.”

He grips the collar, yanking Duck so their nose to nose and growling, “then you’d better get to it.”

Duck moans and drops to his knees, hands wrestling with Indrid’s belt. 

Indrid chuckles, “Does someone like it when I’m a bit of a monster?”

“Yes, fuck, so fuckin much sugar.” Duck gets Indrids pants and underwear down enough that his cock is free, half-hard just from toying with him. 

“I can be your monster, sweetheart. Now be a good boy and open your mouth.”

Duck obeys and Indrid only has to guide the tip in before the younger man is sucking and working his hands expertly. He’s a bit messier than usual, constantly flicking his gaze upwards in search of assurance he’s doing well. 

“Good boy.” Indrid toys with dark hair, tips his head back with a groan as Duck takes him deeper, “oh a _very_ good boy.” When he looks forward again, he sees their reflection in the mirror on the closet door; the handsome little outsider on his knees for a bloodstained, menacing figure grinning wide and greedy above him. 

He moans, places a hand on the back of Ducks head and pushes him forward. When his cock bumps the top of his throat Duck struggles, looking up at Indrid with unsure eyes. He doesn’t give their signal, so Indrid keeps going, leans into the persona he had during the tour, the one Duck has told him many times he fantasized about.

“Just a little further pet, I know you can take it. And if you refuse well…” he wipes some of the sticky red from his mouth, reaches down to drag it across Duck’s cheek, “...some of your blood might end up in this mix.”

Duck moans so hard Indrid feels it in his fucking spine, green eyes rolling back as he throws his arms around Indrids thighs, nearly sending him tipping over his head. Indrid gains the last inch again and again as Duck frantically bobs back and forth. He rests a hand on the back of Duck’s neck to comfort and ground him, the other on his cheek to feel himself through the skin there, fucking into wet warmth without lifting a finger, Duck gagging and swallowing and moaning in his pursuit of making Indrid cum. 

“So good, ohgod, so very very good,” he’s close already, and while claiming Duck’s throat, coating him inside and out so every inch belongs to him, appeals, there’s something else he wants more.

“Such a good little plaything deserves a reward.” He weaves his fingers into Ducks hair and pulls him off his cock, takes over stroking himself off. Duck’s arms stay wrapped around him, the embrace endearingly determined.

“Fuck, yeah” Duck grins, understanding, “c’mon sugar, please, wanna be good for you, fuckme you look good from this angle” he manages to put wonder in that sentence, as if he’s never been here before but has imagined it constantly. 

“Thank you pet, you, you look perfect on your knees, nnnnff, but you can look better, if I can just, ohyesyes, that’s it, ah!” He cums across Ducks face, eyes shut and fingers crossed that Duck closed his own in time. All the same he holds him firmly in place until the last of it spurts out. Looks down in time to see Duck’s eyes flutter open, specks of shiny white on cheeks, chin, and lips. Duck wipes some of it away, looks down in awe, as if he never thought he’d get so lucky. 

His attention to his cum-streaked fingers means he doesn’t notice Indrid moving until the singer drops to his knees. Indrid climbs on top of him, Duck turning doe-eyed as he obediently lays back. His hands are clutched to his chest, unsure where they’re allowed to rest. Indrid solves the quandary for him by taking one in each of his own and pinning them to the ground as he straddles the other man. Then he dives down, kissing him so hard and so ferociously that Ducks legs and feet begin to kick and twitch like a horror movie victim losing a fight. 

“Drid.” He whines when Indrid pulls away, sitting up awkwardly to beg for more kisses. His mouth is a mess of fake blood and hints of black lipstick, his eyes are glazed over with lust, and Indrid has never seen anything so hot in his entire life. 

“Yes, pet?” He cocks his head, feigns ignorance. 

“C-can I have another kiss? It’s, I mean I know it wasn’t part of the dealMPhmmmmm” his mouth parts the instant their lips connect and Indrid explores it a moment, savoring the little whimpers that fall onto his tongue.

When he sits up again he releases Ducks hands in order to take his tank top off. Then he undoes Duck’s pants, the other man gasping in surprise as he works them down and finds the fly in his boxers.

“You, you don’t gotta do that it’s, it’s okay I’m used to it, not cummin I mean, I, I can-”

Indrid-of-now’s heart breaks a little, because that’s not a bit for the game either. Twenty-one year old Indrid, who is becoming more present as the night goes on, scoffs and preens at the same time.

“If others have been too rude not to reciprocate, that is their problem, not mine. Not when there’s such a…” he licks his lips, “tasty little toy needing to be played with.”

“Oh fuuuuuck” Duck arches off the floor as Indrid slips a finger inside.

“Besides, what kind of performer would I be if I didn’t give back to my fans?”

Duck guffaws at that, and Indrid grins, guiding them onto their sides, Duck hooking a leg over his knee so Indrid can continue fingerfucking him to his hearts content. 

“Too” he kisses down Duck’s face, “we need to pass the time until I’m hard again.”

“Again?” Duck half sighs and half cheers, and Indrid’s increasingly glad they left the exact details of what tonight would involve vague; Duck’s genuine surprise is turning out to be the most satisfying part of this. 

Instead of saying “yes, because I am so in love with you I want every chance to make you mad with pleasure” he stays in character and growls “oh, I apologize. Did you think you could just break in here, looking like a wet dream come true, and get away with just a little blowjob? Oh no, pet, you’re mine now. You came into my lair, my name on your neck, and I’m going to _feast_ on you.”

Duck is clinging to him again, grinding on his hand and gasping out yeses by the second. Indrid could get used to this. 

“You got wetter when I said that.” He curls his fingers, searching, the angle making it trickier to find the spot that makes Duck moan louder, “fuck, you’re the perfect prey for me, and I’m going to make you so glad you are.”

“Fuck! Ohfuck, ‘Drid right there, fuck me right there.”

“Manners” Indrid coos, nipping his ear.

“Please fuck me right there” Duck giggles a little at the formality, then digs his nails into Indrid’s arm as he presses harder, coaxing him towards climax.

“That’s it pet, be a good boy and cum for me.”

In spite of Duck bucking and kissing feverishly, it takes a few more minutes before he’s close. Indrid doesn’t mind, luxuriates in every inch of skin, every sound, each little movement. When Duck whimpers that he’s close, Indrid grabs the collar and pulls it tight, Duck shouting in delight when he does be wildly rocking his hips and cumming on Indrid’s hand. Indrid holds him, kisses him through it reminds him how good he’s being as he shudders and pants. 

“Come along pet, let’s move somewhere more comfortable.” Indrid helps Duck to his feet, pointing him towards the bed.

“Holy fuck, are you hard again?”

“The insatiability onstage isn’t merely for show. And you have a certain, ah, effect on me.” 

(It’s also a miracle his body is cooperating this smoothly).

“Wh-what are you gonna do now?” 

“Hmmmm” Indrid stands behind him and wraps his arms around Ducks waist, rests his chin on his shoulder as he sways them, “I think I will fuck this incredibly nice ass you’ve brought me.”

“Guh.” Duck swallows, breathing picking up again.

“Is that not something you want?” 

“Nono, I do, just, uh, I, I ain’t ever done that before.”

Indrid stiffens, startled by the possessive hunger that moves through him at that. Duck did admit to not having had anal sex until his twenties. And Indrid's been people’s firsts, he knows that. But the idea of being Duck’s, even if it’s pretend…

“That okay?”

“Perfect.” Indrid’s smile turns menacing against Duck’s throat and he pushes him unceremoniously forward. Legs still stuck in half-down clothes, Duck has no option but to topple onto his stomach. Indrid snarls, climbing atop him, biting and scratching as he tears off the VANS, which hit the wall when he throws them over his shoulder. Ducks pants and boxers follow, the younger man thrashing and moaning all the while. He yelps out another “fuck” when Indrid’s teeth find his ass. His next jolt actually bumps Indrid’s glasses, causing him to hiss, “stop trying to fucking escape when I’m marking you.”

“I ain’t, I swear, fuck it feels good m’sorry for movin’ sorry, sorry, AHgh” He jerks up when Indrid yanks his black shirt up and off, “fuck please I’m tryin to be good.” 

“Shhh, shhhshh” Indrid soothes a hand along his bare back, “it’s alright pet, I know. I’m not angry with you, just a bit, ah, overzealous.” He falls silent to insure Duck hears him unzip his pants, laughs darkly when the sound of the lube popping open makes him tense. 

“I didn’t think someone who broke into a trailer hoping to get his mouth on my cock would be so, ah, virginal.”

“Ain’t virginal” Duck mumbles before turning to look back at him, grinning brightly, “just excited.”

“Glad to hear it.” Indrid coats his fingers in lube, “you can stay like this for now, that’ll be more comfortable.”

He settles on his side so he can slip the first finger in while continuing to kiss and suck at Duck’s back. The muscles tense beneath his mouth as he works him open, and he sighs happily at the feeling. 

“I love how strong you are.” He murmurs. 

“Thanks sugar.” Duck his head to smile at him, and Indrid kisses his nose because he looks so wrecked and so handsome all at once. 

“Now, let’s see…”

“AHnnn, fuck, yeah.” Duck pushes his ass back when Indrid adds the second finger, whimpering whenever Indrid seems like he’s pulling out. 

“Patience, pet, I need to work you up to three before I, ah, deflower you.” 

Duck shakes with giggles, turning his face into the pillow to muffle them. 

When he adds the third finger Duck hisses, and he stops, rubbing his lower back and whispering, “it’s alright, I’m here, you can relax, I’ll take care of you” until Duck unclenches. He’s moaning steadily now, warm around Indrid’s fingers. The singer kisses his tattoos, leaves a hickey on his left shoulder, and generally takes his time, reveling in both pretending this is his first time exploring Duck’s body and in the fact Duck wants him enough that he’s become intimately familiar with the curves and lines of his sturdy frame. 

Finally, he pulls his hand away, tells Duck to get on his hands and knees. They got tested in L.A, got their results a few days ago, and so he doesn't put on a condom before coating his cock with nearly half the bottle of lube as he muses, “I want to say that, as it is your first time, I’ll be gentle. But that’s not what I intend. And” he presses the head of his cock against the rim and Duck goes perfectly still, “I don’t think it’s what you want, either.”

Duck shakes his head.

Indrid presses in the first half-inch, “You want me to fuck you like you’re mine, like I’m the monster and you’re my mate.”

The man beneath him makes a noise Indrid has never heard from him before. A deep whine, ragged when it leaves his throat, and tapering into the word “please” at the end. 

“If you insist.” Indrid slowly presses the rest of the way in, nails leaving curved, red marks on Duck’s hips. 

“Ohhhhhh, you were _made_ for this.” He pulls back an inch, shoves in sharply and Duck cries out and Indrid snickers, “enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, yes, fuck so much, so fuckin much.”

“Good. Because I’ve just decided in addition to being the first to fuck this” he squeezes his ass roughly, “I’m going to be the last.”

“Fuck, yes, please.” There’s a tear forming in the sheet in Duck’s right hand, “wanna be yours, Indrid, please, I’ll do anythin’.”

“Oh but you are mine” Indrid lilts as he bends forward to kiss the back of Duck’s neck, just below the collar, “you have been ever since you walked in this room. I’ve always wanted a live-in toy, a handsome, perfect boy who would do anything and everything for me. The first person to walk through Indrid Cold’s door and never return, to live out his days in my bed. It has to be you, you’re too perfect, too much of everything I ever wanted. Would you like that?”

“Yes, sweet fuckin christ yes, Indrid, Indrid.” 

The singer ruffles his hair, grabs his left wrist, “Good. But just in case, I’m going to make it so you can’t even walk tomorrow, so you’ll have no choice but to stay in this bed and let me take you and take care of you.” With that he pulls Ducks left arm back, does the same thing to his right so his face is smushed against the bed and his hands are trapped behind his back. Indrid can’t technically hold them tight with one hand, but it’s not like Duck is trying to fo anywhere. Instead he’s pushing his hips back, moaning and begging as Indrid drops down and fucks him viciously, driving as deep as he can on each thrust, groaning at the sound of his body slamming into the one beneath him.

There’s a hiccuping noise and Indrid reaches forward to touch Duck’s face, comes away with black and smirks. 

“We need to invest in waterproof liner for you, sweet one. I intend to fuck you so well you cry on a regular basis, and you don’t want everyone to know that, do you? Or do you like the idea of everyone knowing just what you do for me?”

Duck makes a wordless, broken sound that could be affirmative, negative, or not even related to Indrid’s question. In fact, the only words he’s able to make are Indrid’s name and increasingly sharp “yeses” that fly out of him with each snap of Indrid’s hips. It’s sounds better than anything Indrid can ever hope to write, and his orgasm is already circling in his stomach. 

He leans so his mouth is beside Duck’s ear, “I’m going to cum in you my sweet, so this, goodness, this lovely ass will be dripping all night, and you’ll feel me long after I’m done. You, nnghgod, you have no idea what you’ve unleashed, pet, you offered yourself to me and now I am never, ever letting goOoohhh, Duck, sweetheart, fuck.” Indrid feels Duck gasp when he spills into him, holds him down with his full weight as he jerks and wiggles his hips to ride out the orgasm. He’s not inclined to pull out, but he’s even less inclined to squish his poor boyfriend. 

As he eases out he kisses Duck’s shoulder, “Do you need to cum again, love?”

“Nghuhuh.”

“That was not terribly enlightening.”

“M’good. Minds so goddamn blow, you keep goin I might pass out on you.”

“Can’t have that. Wait here just a moment.” He putters about the room on unsteady legs, returning with water, a warm washcloth, and muscle rub. 

Duck rolls onto his back witha groan, “Barclay’s a fuckin genius. That was fuckin amazin. Just how I used to imagine it. Er, uh, well, not sure I woulda been that articulate. Much as I wanna say I woulda been chill, probably woulda lost the ability to speak the first time you smiled at me.”

“I enjoyed it as well. Anywhere sore?” 

Duck moves his limbs, testing them, “thighs kinda hurt.”

Indrid pats his lap and Duck props his right leg into it. As he massages his thighs, Duck studies him. 

“Was it really okay for you?”

“It was divine. I, ah, I liked imagining what I would have done if you’d come to me a nervous, starstruck fanboy.”

“You forgettin that night in your dressin’ room?”

“You were nervous because you thought you were going to be fired.”

“And because it was you. I still got butterflies just lookin at you. Still do but they’re, uh, they’re different now. Get ‘em because I look at you and see my fuckin amazin boyfriend.”

Indrid blushes, rolls into Ducks arms when he opens them. 

“You” Duck yawns “want me to set an alarm? We got that meetin with Stern tonight about Reconciliation.”

“Already done, my love. We can nap without fear.”

As they cuddle up together, Duck sighs, “With you around sugar, I’m startin to feel real fuckin fearless.”


	11. Strange Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno sends an email. Duck sends a message. Indrid plays a song.

It’s Juno who comes through for him in the end. He’s half-asleep on the bed, en route to Reno, when she sends him an email from an account that she, “coulda sworn was deleted years ago.”

There, in pixely glory, is his name above a set of lyrics he sent Juno, asking her if she thought they were too cheesy. He has no recollection of sending it, was positive he hid those lyrics from everyone except Alex. But when he thinks about it, if he was going to ask anyone for feedback on them, it would have been his best friend.

The lyrics are from a song he ended up calling “Burnt Offering,” one which is now being played on Christian radio as just “Offerings.” 

He shows it to Indrid excitedly, and the singer yells so triumphantly it summons Stern from where he’s sitting and planning with Ned faster than any text could. 

“Please tell me that was good yelling and not bad yelling.” The manager lifts an eyebrow, so Duck turns his phone so he can see the email. 

“Well, that makes our lives a whole lot easier. I’ll see if I can get Janelle on the phone and-”

“Wait.”

Stern and Indrid both turn to look at him, surprised. 

“I, uh, I been thinkin about this whole thing. Far as I can tell he’s only passed off five of my songs as his own. I made him about sixteen total, I think. If we get into it with Reconciliation, it’ll be this whole damn thing, and I’ll have to keep dealin with him when all I wanna do is leave him to live his miserable life while I get to live my good one. The songs he already sold, they’re as good as lost causes to me. He can have ‘em. Reconciliation can have ‘em too. But I want the rest back, or I want some kind of promise that he won’t sell ‘em off.”

Stern crosses his arms and taps his foot, eyeing the ceiling as he thinks, “That may be doable, and I can certainly understand why’d you’d like to keep him as out of your orbit as much as possible. Do you want me to make the overtures?”

“Nah” Duck looks down at his phone, “think I know how to handle him on this one.”

“Alright. But if he won’t listen to a simple request, then he’ll be dealing with me."

Duck waits until the next morning to send the message, unblocking MastersVoice on Instagram while Indrid showers. He showered after the show last night, but judging by how much red shimmer is in the bed and on Duck’s chest, he needs the second one in a serious way. 

He stares at the screen. Part of him wants to wait until Indrid is back, to lean on him as he types this out. But this is something he needs to do on his own. He sends the screenshot in a DM and types out a comment below it.

_DuckNewton: I know you’ve been selling my songs to Reconciliation. Here’s proof. And here's the deal: you swear not to sell the rest, and send me back the originals and any copies, and I don’t show this to your label and let them know you’re a goddamn fraud._

It doesn’t take long to get a response. 

_MastersVoice: I thought you were better than this Wayne._

_DuckNewton: Well, I’m not. Give me back my fucking songs. Or me and a lawyer from Amnesty get on the phone with Reconciliation today._

_MastersVoice: You’re bluffing._

_DuckNewton: I can’t bluff, dipshit._

It’s a longer pause this time, and Duck pulls up an empty message to Stern just in case. 

_MastersVoice: Fine. Where do I send them? You got a fancy new place because you’re a kept man now?_

Duck rolls his eyes; leave it to this asshole to try and make “Indrid Cold is in love with you” sounds like something Duck should be ashamed of. He grabs the paper copy of their itinerary and gives him the address of the hotel they’re staying in for their stint in Las Vegas. After the two nights Indrid plays there, they’re taking a two week break before heading back towards L.A for Indrid’s Halloween appearances. So Duck knows he’ll be there to receive any mail. 

_MastersVoice: I’ll send them tomorrow. You know this isn’t going to last right? If a guy who can’t even get signed doesn’t want you, why would he?_

_DuckNewton: Sorry bud, can’t hear you over the sound of my rockstar boyfriend singing in the shower. Have a nice life._

Then he blocks him again, figuring he can ask Aubrey to unblock and check the messages tomorrow in case the jerk tries to go back on the deal. 

“How go the negotiations?” Indrid steps out of the bathroom, towel around his waist and brown eyes still a bit sleep-tinged. 

“Think I got him to see things my way, but we won’t know until we get to Vegas.”

“Well let’s hope he behaves and we don’t have to sic Joseph on him. Or Mama.”

“Mama ain’t on the legal team.”

“No, but that won’t stop her if she gets word that someone is trying to rip one of her staff off. Now.” He removes the towel, letting Duck ogle him as he hunts for clothes, “speaking of Vegas, how would you like to take a trip to some of the nearby state parks during our stay?”

“I’d love it.”

“Oh good. Because I love you.” Indrid pulls on a black tank-top. 

“I love you too.”

The singer wiggles into his underwear, grinning all the while, “isn’t it nice when things work out that way?”  
\---------------------------------------------  
It’s the second show in Vegas, and Duck stress-sweating near the effects rack. 

See, in the days before arriving on the neon-soaked, crowded, oddly bleak strip, to a hotel where his lost songs were, in fact, waiting for him, Duck and Indrid put the finishing touches on three songs, Dani helping with the final arrangements (and Aubrey and Dr. Harris Bonkers playing the role of mostly-supportive peanut gallery). Tonight, Indrid is going to play one of them to a massive crowd, and Duck is starting to wish he’d surprised him with it the way he had back in the bar with The Hornets because the anticipation is chewing him up. Jesus, is this knot of anticipation how Indrid feels every time he debuts a new track?

Onstage, Indrid finishes “On the Prowl” and tunes his guitar as he speaks over the screaming cheers. 

“Thank you! Now, you are an especially lucky audience, because I am about to play something brand new. Yes, even newer than “Let Me in.” What can I say” he shrugs as if his creative streaks are no big deal, “I’ve been told I have stamina.”

The crowd whistles and hoots. 

Satisfied with the chord he plays, Indrid nods to Dani and Jake, the younger man counting them in at a moderate tempo. 

“ _Some people say love is patient, love is kind. Some people say their love is true. But what they don’t know is love can be laced with TNT, waiting in the darkness for you.”_

“I’m glad he chose this one.” Stern murmurs, making Duck jolt hard enough that he hurriedly checks to make sure he didn’t just disconnect the sound system. 

“You think it’s that strong?”

“I do.” Stern smirks, a secretive, almost playful expression in the dark, “I also love a song with some good mothman references. You and I are cryptozoologists through and through.” He pats Duck on the shoulder. 

“ _Some people say love is fleeting, love is cold. Some people say it’s everlasting. But you have asked me for what I foresee, and the truth is I don’t really know_.”

‘You should be proud, kid.” Leo drapes an arm over Duck, beaming.

“... _Some things will fade and most things decay, I wish you’d stay with me. How lucky, I ever was to see the way that you smile at me. The way that we are and the way we might be, I love you however you change_.”

Indrid hits the last verse and Duck, for all his nerves, is as transfixed as he was when the put on the C.D all those years ago and Indrid’s voice came lilting out of the speakers, calling to him. 

When the song ends Indrid cocks his head, waiting for the reaction. The crowd cheers and applauds, and after a small bow he says, “I am glad you enjoyed it. But I can’t take the credit for it, not without acknowledging my partners in crime. One of whom has yet to join me onstage.”

He turns, holding out his hand in Duck’s general direction. Duck hesitates, only for Aubrey to shove him forward. There’s a lull as the crowd works out who exactly the short guy in black is then salacious and encouraging cheers just as he takes Indrid’s hand. 

“Yes, my pack of monsters, not only is he the most wonderful creature to ever walk this earth, Duck Newton is a magnificent songwriter who you will be hearing much more from!”

Duck stands taller when he registers that the cheers are now ones of genuine excitement; an entire amphitheater of people, all eager to hear what he has to say.

“He’s not a half-bad roadie either!” Indrid adds, earning him a laugh. As it ripples through the audience, he turns with a much softer smile, “and he’s the love of my life.”

The singer pulls him into a kiss, the cheers growing impossibly louder when he does. Or at least that’s what Dani tells him afterwards. Because in that moment Duck can’t hear anything besides Indrid’s heart and his own, beating together in a perfect rhythm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Indrid sings is roughly to the tune of "Two Coffins" by Against Me!, and the line "How louck I ever was to see the way that you smile at me" is taken directly from that as well.


	12. I'm Customized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indrid remembers. Duck listens to a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Indrid and Duck roleplay something that could read as dubcon at first (it's implied Indrid surprised him while camping and tied him up), but it's mentioned as explicitly wanted both within and outside of the roleplay.

Indrid went camping exactly once as a boy. It was a multi-person trip with the other ten year old boys from his church youth group and all of their fathers. He spent the entire first day increasingly afraid of the night, of being in the dark with them, with the few who he was realizing he liked the way other boys liked girls, terrified that they’d somehow sense it on him and tear him limb from limb like a pack of homophobic lions. 

That night, while the dads were out by the fire, the boys lay in the cabin, passing around a flashlight and telling scary stories. When it reached Indrid, he heard them muttering about how there was no way such a sissy could tell anything good. 

Now, several weeks prior Indrid had been in the video store with Barclay and his moms, Alice and Mallory. Alice and Mallory had, in perhaps their greatest gift to Indrid, convinced his parents that they were simply good friends living together (“it wasn’t really a lie” Alice told him later, “gay marriage wasn’t legal, so as far as anyone but us was concerned, we weren't wives”). This meant Indrid was permitted to have sleepovers at Barclay’s house, where he promptly binged all the books, T.V, and movies he’d otherwise have to hide from his parents. 

The rule was he and Barclay would each pick a movie, and when Alice found him in the horror section she simply asked him what he was looking for. 

“My dad said I need to man up. Which means be brave. So I’m going to watch one of these to prove I can be brave. That’s what a man would do.” 

Alice raised an eyebrow. Looking back, she was probably amused at the fact Indrid was declaring this while his best friend tried to decide between _Hocus Pocus_ and _Beauty and the Beast._ Barclay was always a romantic, even then. 

“Hmm, well, these might be a bit much to start with.” She plucked _Halloween_ and _Nightmare on Elm Street_ from his hands, “how about I show you some of my favorites?”

Which is how he returned to their house with a copy of _The Mummy_ starring Boris Karloff. It didn’t scare him. It transfixed him, fascinated him, and he wanted _more_.   
In the weeks and months to come, Alice would facilitate him seeing every universal horror film, both Addams Family movies, and easing him into things like B-movies (and, on his fourteenth birthday _The Mothman Prophecies_ ). But on that night in the cabin, he’d only seen _The Mummy_ and _The Wolfman_

“Once upon a time, in ancient Egypt, there lived a, ah, a priest. The priest was in love with the queen, but the pharaoh found out and was angry..”

He then proceeded to describe, in graphic detail, the torment to which the priest and his followers were subjected to before being mummified alive. The movie had been relatively tame, but his mind filled in the gaps with images of hooks yanking out brains, pleas for mercy being stifled by heavy sarcophagus lids. 

Because all the boys ended their stories with “and they say he’s still out in these very woods” Indrid ended by telling them that Imhotep still roamed the earth, searching for victims to add to his undead army. 

Which is why, when the door swung open, all of the boys screamed in genuine fear, and were frightened enough that Indrid’s father began scolding him, in spite of his protests that he was just telling a story the way everyone else had. And hadn’t his father seen just then that he was brave, that he wasn’t the one hiding from the monsters?

It had not gone well. 

The next year, Indrid refused to go and his father, likely not wanting more chances for his church friends to know how weird and weak his son was, didn’t force the issue. 

If only the old bastard could see him now. 

Indrid finishes drying the two dishes and mugs form lunch, dumps the dishwater in a nearby bush. Tucks the chips back into the bear box, and slips the stove back into it’s travel box. Behind him, the tent reflects the mid afternoon light.

He helped set that tent up, and paid for it too (after taking Duck to REI and asking which tent he’d buy if money were no object). It’s huge, because Duck mentioned he’d like for Jane and his niece to join them sometimes, an idea which made Indrid glow like campfire embers. 

(There are no actual embers right now, as Duck has taught him how to properly douse as fire). 

The Monongahela stretches around him, green in the late summer heat, as beautiful as Duck said it was. As much as Indrid is enjoying the trip and all the new song ideas it’s giving him, what he enjoys most is the way Duck talks about trees, the way he lays out by the river with his hat over his eyes, the way he holds Indrid in their big, luxurious sleeping bag for two. 

Duck is currently nowhere to be seen. Because he is in the tent, unable to escape, in preparation for the scene Indrid came up with over lunch. He’d mentioned the location gave him “Cabin Fever” vibes and Duck got that look on his face, the one that means an old fantasy is rearing it’s head, and so Indrid climbed into his lap and kissed him silly until he confessed what it was. Then he kissed him some more, because it was Duck and he will never get tired of kissing him. 

He adjusts his glasses; he supposes this scenario would work best at night, but he doesn’t want to interrupt their routine of s’mores and stargazing, and also he doesn’t want to wait any longer to fuck his wonderful boyfriend.

Slipping off his flip-flops, he unzips the tent and takes a moment to savor the sight before him. Duck’s hands are bound at the wrists, trapped behind him, and his feet struggle uselessly against the rope around his ankles. He’s dressed as if he just woke up and he’s gagged, one of Indrid’s (clean) tank-tops knotted at the back of his head. Sweat rolls down his face, he’s panting, and when Indrid enters the tent his eyes fly open, wide and alert. 

“There now, I told you I wouldn’t be long. But I’ve been out in the woods awhile and was hungry, and no matter how delicious a morsel you are, I can’t actually eat you.”

Duck whimpers around the fabric as Indrid rolls him on his back, tensing when Indrid adds, “Then again…”

He lunges forward and down, rucking Duck’s shirt up to his chest and biting him hard on his stomach, has to force Duck’s legs to straighten so he can pin them down to avoid getting kneed in the gut. Duck moans and thrashes, and Indrid doesn’t let up his attack on his torso until he hears a sob.

The singer sits up, straddling Duck’s hips and sliding his glasses down his nose to smirk at him, “I’m surprised, one would think a well-behaved country boy would know better than to come out into this part of the woods alone. After all, haven’t you heard of the…” he drags his fingers up Duck’s throat, rests his hand there without pressing, “smiling man?”

“Oumphean id old?”

Indrid rips off the gag, and Duck gasps, “you mean Indrid Cold?”

“That’s one of my aliases, yes.” Indrid grins leaning forwards and petting Duck’s cheek, “aren’t you a clever one. But that doesn’t really answer my question.”

Duck presses his cheek into his palm, and Indrid gives him the affectionate strokes he’s seeking, “I, uh, I was just lonely. Made as much sense to be lonely out here as in town.”

“I find it hard to believe no one wishes to play with a toy as handsome as you.” That gets a blush, and Indrid traces his thumb along Duck’s cheek as he watches it rise, “we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we pet?” He bends down and kisses Duck slow and demanding, letting him know exactly what he thinks of him. 

When he breaks the kiss he stays close, feels Duck’s breath on his face as the younger man whispers, “you ain’t gonna hurt me?”

It’s part of the game, yes. But they’ve been together over a year now; Indrid can hear the hints of insecurity, the lingering wisps of Duck’s old fears. 

“No, sweetheart, never.” He cards his fingers through Ducks hair, kisses him softly, “you belong to me now, and I’ll take good care of you.” He kisses lazily down Duck’s throat, the tension draining from Duck as he does. 

“I’ve been lonely too” he sighs, nuzzling the base of his neck, “but not anymore. Not since I saw you. You’ll be my companion, won’t you pet?”

“Uhhuh, oh god, Indrid” Duck moans when the singer slips a hand down to tug at his waistband.

“How shall we initiate you, hmmm?” Indrid coos, laughing when Duck plants hurried, eager kisses along his cheek. 

“Fuck me.” Duck pleads. 

“Someone’s getting bold.”

“Please” Duck pushes his hips up, shorts noticeably damp in front, “I don’t wanna wait anymore, wanna be yours.”

“You are, love, why do you think I tied you up like this? I like to keep my things from running away.”

“I ain’t goin to, I swear, I don't wanna be anywhere but with you.”

Indrid cocks his head, “Do you want me to untie you?”

“Fuck no, want you to be able to do whatever you want to me, sugar.”

“Good boy.” Indrid purrs, rewarding him with a palm against his dick, “on your belly.”

Duck whines, pressing his dick towards Indrid’s hand. Indrid tuts, climbs off him, and flips him over. Yanks his shorts down to his ankles and kneads his ass roughly as he muses, “I want you naked pet, yet I don’t want to fuss about with untying you. Ah, this will do.” He retrieves a pocket knife from Duck’s nearby bag, “hold still.”

He uses the scissors, not the knife, snipping a few inches up the shirt. Then he grabs either side of the cut and tears, ripping the fabric up to Duck’s mid-back, then finishing the job with a second yank. 

“Ohhhhhhfuck, goddamn sugar that’s real fuckin hot.”

“Agreed. I’ll have to start buying you more things just to tear off you.”

“Fine by meEEEeejesuschrist, ‘Drid.” Duck’s ass wiggles deliciously as Indrid hauls his ass into the air, two pairs of knees digging into the sleeping bag beneath them. Then he yelps as Indrid shoves in all at once, struggling to open his knees wider with his ankles still bound. 

“Fuck! Fuckyeah, c’mon sugar please don’t make me wait anymoreOH _shit_.” He gasps as Indrid slams into him over and over again. Indrid will never get tired of being inside him like this, of hearing him moan and beg.

“Good boy, so eager to take my cock. You’re going to take it until you scream, and after too, you’ll take it as hard and as, ahgod, as rough as I want you to.”

“Uhhuhnmmm” Duck is biting the top of his sleeping bag now. 

“Such an obedient pet, how lucky I am to have you.” Indrid holds his head down with one hand, grabs his hip with the other, “oh my, you feel so good, fuck, when I compliment you. Which is perfect, because you are perfect, and wonderful, so handsome and strong and I cannot believe I got you alone”

Duck is doing his best to work his hips in time with Indrid’s, and he can see his thighs straining from the effort. 

“That’s it love, fuck yourself on me, show me just how much you like your monster.”

The man beneath him groans, thumps his fist in the ground when Indrid drags his nails up his thigh, “gonna be the death of me sugar, fuck it feels so good, wanna be all yours.”

“Oh you’re about to be” Indrid growls, aware of his orgasm barrelling towards him, “I’m going to cum in you, my sweet, and you had better be good and take it.”

“I will, fuck, I swear ‘Drid, wanna feel you, belong to you, fuck, sugar, love you so much.”

“Fuck” Indrid whimpers, cumming in perfect time with his boyfriend’s repetitions of “love you.”

He pulls out, savors the sight of Duck spread before him for a moment before turning to more urgent matters.

“Do you want me toFUCK, _fuck_ fuckfuck” Duck’s head immediately drops back down to the ground as Indrid slips his hand between his legs and roughly jacks him off. It’s such a lovely sound, Duck wet and hard under his fingers, and were he a slightly different man he’d put it into the introduction of a track. 

“I did say I was going to make you scream, and I haven’t yet.” He licks a strip along Duck’s back, biting down below his shoulder.

“AhhAHHHnnnnfuck!”

“That’s better. Music to my ears. Cum for me my wonderful perfect Duck.” His hand picks up speed and Duck’s cries increase in volume, hands writhing in rope and sweat collecting on his neck as he cums on Indrid’s fingers. 

Duck isn’t even done shaking before Indrid is swiftly undoing the simple knots and freeing him, kissing his wrists and ankles, whispering sweet thank yous all the while. 

“Phew” Duck mumbles as Indrid wipes his thighs with the remains of his shirt, “think I’m gonna need a trip to the river. That was wild, darlin.”

“Glad you enjoyed it. Here” he lifts a water bottle to Duck’s lips and the other man drinks, head still a bit wobbly. 

“Maybe we oughta just work our way through recreatin your entire videography.”

“Were _all_ of them formative sexual influences for you?”

“....Maybe.” Duck grins, kissing Indrid playfully, “what can I say, you had a way of lightin my fire. Funny thing is, it don’t hold a candle to how hot you are as just you. As my Indrid.”

Indrid makes a shy noise, blushing as Duck continues kissing him. Once they can make their legs work, they change into swimtrunks and take a short hike to the river bank. Indrid lounges in the sun while Duck wades in, returning to show him an alarmingly large crawdad he caught. 

As the sun sets and the stars appear, Duck finishes cleaning up from dinner and Indrid works on a new album cover (his gift to The Hornets for their debut album with Amnesty Records). He hums as he draws, words drifting in and out of the melody as he switches to singing parts of it. It morphs into a song about two ghosts finding each other in the woods, falling so in love that they come back to life. 

“That a new one?” Duck sits down next to him.

“Huh? Oh, ah, yes. I just made it up now.” Indrid sets the sketchpad aside. 

“What’s it for?”

“You. Us.” He smiles as Duck drapes and arm over his shoulder, tilts his head to rest it on Duck’s shoulder. 

“You gonna record it?”

Indrid shakes his head, smiling up at the stars as he takes both of Duck’s hands in his own, “No, I don’t think I will. I think that’s our song and ours alone. What do you say?”

Duck kisses him once as the moon peeks above the treetops, the world bathed in strange, wonderful light. 

“Fine by me. And I’d say it’s the best thing you’ve ever written, sugar.”

**Author's Note:**

> All chapter titles taken from the discography of The Cramps.


End file.
